After Harlan tries to kiss her, the rest of the party doesn’t feel like a party at all. Chelsea keeps waiting for Arlene to sneak up, take her aside, and explain that she’s being let go, that the VFR doesn’t need Florida Woman anymore. Or for Harlan to come back and…she’s not even sure. Some deep, reptile part of her brain can picture him leading her away, shoving her down, forcing her to do things—because David’s apologies were always segues into allowing her to win back his favor through subjugation. Another part of her mind can imagine Harlan trying to reason her doubts away, sweet-talk her into sleeping with him—or gaslight her into believing it never happened.
She wishes she could get her hands on the paperwork she signed when she got hired and see what it says about something like this, but she never got her own copy. At the time, it didn’t seem like an issue as long as there was a roof over her head, food in her belly, and the promise of enough money to live on and an eventual vaccination. Now she sees that she’s always been too trusting of any authority figure that wasn’t her own mother, whom she’s never trusted.
No one else seems to have witnessed what occurred around the corner of the RV, or at least they’re not being weird about it. The rest of her co-workers are all in fabulous moods, drinking Harlan’s liquor and eating Harlan’s snacks, scrolling through their splashy new pages online, grateful that the gambit is paying off. As soon as the first woman yawns and peels off for bed, Chelsea follows. With only half the bunks occupied and voices still murmuring outside, she can’t sleep. She would give anything for what seemed like the most basic of technology at home—an old tablet and a Netflix account and enough Wi-Fi to watch a show, something stupid to take her mind off the seriousness of real life. She still remembers during the Covid pandemic when she and Ella binged all of Gilmore Girls in a couple of weeks as David kept stubbornly going into work, living his life quarantined in the spare bedroom upstairs, furious about how much the daily death toll impacted his clients’ investments—and equally furious that Chelsea wouldn’t get within six feet of him.
That should’ve been a red flag, right there. The man has no empathy, no semblance of feeling for anything beyond himself. With her current distance from him, she can’t believe how much she’d been ignoring or repressing the horrible things he did, turning away with a bright smile when he didn’t seem to give a shit about the girls when they were upset or refusing to tip delivery drivers during the pandemic because he was “already being price-gouged for groceries.”
For hours, she lies in bed on her back, feeling her bruises and sore spots from what might possibly be her first and last match in the VFR, thinking about every goddamn thing she’s done wrong.
The only thing she’s proud of since her high school grades is being a mother. If David was cold or cruel, she was the flowered umbrella over their heads, protecting them from the violent storms of their father.
She was a good mother.
Is a good mother.
And the only reason she would ever leave her children would be to avoid hurting them, which is why she’s here instead of somewhere else. She might not have Ella’s number or her mom’s, but she’s going to get a phone and get in touch with them as soon as possible.
That is, if she hasn’t gotten herself fired, in which case the greasy cash in her pocket is all she has in the entire world.
She falls asleep—well, how the hell would she know when? She doesn’t have a working phone and she doesn’t have a window in her bunk and time no longer has any meaning. But she wakes up the next morning to Arlene’s alarm and rubs her eyes as she waits her turn for the tiny bathroom, stomach grumbling and mouth fuzzy from last night’s wine.
What would it’ve been like to kiss Harlan Payne? Even if it was something she wanted, which she doesn’t think it is, the scent of beer sickens her these days, and the tang of cigar is even worse. It brings back memories of David’s barbecues, after his friends had all gone home drunk, their tipsy wives chauffeuring them, when David tottered into their bedroom and clumsily woke her up and bullied her into sloppy, whiny sex.
She does not want to kiss Harlan Payne. The thought doesn’t give her those flutters she used to get in her tummy, back when she was just a girl.
She wonders if anything ever will again.
David once gave her those flutters, and now she has to question if her body has any goddamn sense at all.
“You went to bed early,” Amy says on the way to breakfast.
“Tired.” In no way a lie. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nah. Nobody drank too much—not with training going hard core. Are you excited?” Without waiting for an answer, she keeps talking. “I hate that I didn’t get to go last time—it was like when you wait in line for three hours for the roller coaster and then it breaks down right before it’s your turn, you know? It looks so exhilarating. Like it’ll make your heart pound. Nothing ever feels that way, once you’re past your twenties. Even roller coasters. Even skydiving. Everything is just…Ah, so we’re doing this. Okay. We did that. Right?”
Chelsea felt that kind of exhilaration when she was giving birth, but knowing what she now knows about Amy, she’s not going to bring it up.
“Pretty much,” she agrees.
“Chelsea, can I borrow you for a minute?”
It’s Arlene, her eyes big and apologetic, her hand on Chelsea’s arm.
This isn’t a flutter or a pounding heart—this is a feeling that definitely doesn’t go away with adulthood. A sinking, dark, thick feeling, a stone in her stomach.
Something bad is going to happen, and nothing can stop it.
Chelsea knows this feeling intimately.
She pastes on a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says, “Sure.”
Arlene nods and leads her away, toward Harlan’s RV. Chelsea jerks back a little, tripping over her feet, but Arlene’s hand is there to steady her. Arlene isn’t going to leave her alone with Harlan, is she? Chelsea’s heart is definitely stuttering now as they near what is by far the nicest of the RVs. This one doesn’t have an awning and tarp and grill outside. This one is for the big boss alone, and to her knowledge, no one outside of Harlan and his lieutenants, Chris and Arlene and maybe Sienna, has been in there.
“I’m going in with you,” Arlene says as if reading her mind, firm and warm as always. “I’ll go in first.”
With a smile and a pat on the arm, Arlene knocks on the RV door, and when Harlan calls, “Come in!,” she steps in first. Chelsea follows, although what she really wants is to turn and run away. She isn’t sure where she would even go, but she has always felt this instinct around David and has never been able to follow her body’s yearning. This time she forces herself to keep walking. Not because she’s afraid of Harlan or wants to please him personally, but because she sees now that the VFR is real, that it’s going to be wildly successful, and she wants to stay a part of it and grow along with it. If Harlan pays them in kind, doing this will get her vaccinated and back with her daughters much faster than delivering pizza will.
Inside, the RV is outrageously sumptuous. It reminds her of pictures of the Rock on a private jet. Creamy leather, gleaming wood, shining metal. Harlan sits at a booth-style table wearing his usual costume, his scarf a quiet gray. He’s sitting up straight, his face neutral. It’s odd, seeing someone so vibrant and alive trying to mute himself.
Arlene scoots into the booth across from him and pats the leather seat beside her. Chelsea slides in, too, noting the neat stack of stapled paper in front of her seat, along with a silver pen—no plastic bank pen here.
“I’ll be acting as arbiter,” Arlene says, sounding like she’s in court. “Chelsea, have you read the agreement you signed when you accepted employment with the VFR?”
Heat floods her cheeks and she looks down. “No. I was…pretty desperate.”
Arlene exhales through her nose. “See? I told you. They must receive their own copy, or it isn’t fair.” She says this to Harlan in a scolding voice, but now she turns to Chelsea, her voice softer. “Well, here is a copy for you now. You can read it yourself, but please allow me to condense the part that’s important today. Is it correct that Harlan here made a pass at you last night?”
Chelsea looks at the table, glances at the paper, fiddles with the cool silver pen. She does not want to lose this job, but she also doesn’t want to lie or lose any protections the papers in front of her might offer.
“Kind of.”
Arlene nods. “That’s what he told me.”
“It wasn’t…aggressive, or predatory, or…” Chelsea struggles for the word. “Indecent? It just seemed like an honest mistake. We were talking about an emotional subject.”
Across the table, Harlan holds himself so carefully, his lips pinned shut. It’s a revelation to Chelsea, as she would expect a man in his place to talk over her, to offer excuses, to say she was asking for it, to write it off as a joke. That’s what David and his friends would do, and they’re the only men Chelsea has been around in almost twenty years.
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Arlene says gently. “So I need to ask you. Do you wish to continue employment with the VFR? I can tell you now that we would very much like you to stay with us, and that you will not be put in this position again.”
Chelsea looks up then, in surprise. Harlan looks sorry, like a little boy who accidentally hit a baseball through a window. Arlene looks like the teacher who caught him doing it but knows he didn’t mean any harm. And that would normally leave Chelsea feeling like the window, but this time…she feels more like the person who owns the window.
“I’d like to stay on,” she says softly. “If it won’t be weird. Am I in trouble?”
Arlene turns to her swiftly, puts a hand on her wrist. “Honey, no. Of course not. You did absolutely nothing wrong. You did a fine job in your first match, and your quick thinking and courage in helping that poor woman who was storming saved lives on the floor and brought us a great deal of positive publicity. Make no mistake: We want you here.”
Even though it takes every ounce of self-control she has, Chelsea forces herself to look at Harlan, right in the eyes. “You’re not mad?”
Harlan huffs a chuckle. “Ms. Martin, you’re the one who should be mad. What I did was very much against workplace ethics.”
“I’m confused. I thought we operated outside the law?”
“There’s us dealing with the government and their post-Covid rules, and then there’s us acting as an employer of a growing number of people, who may or may not be listed as contractors instead of with their real titles. Point being, you’ll get a 1099 and pay your taxes, even if some of the numbers are fudged.” Harlan’s big finger points at the papers in front of Chelsea. “This protects the VFR, but it also protects you. After seeing what Rayna went through working her way up to the ring, I swore I’d never let a woman be preyed upon in any business I was tied up in. Even if I was the one causing the problem. So we’re going to make this right.”
Arlene puts up a hand. “Let me handle this part, please, before Mr. Big Heart owes you an RV of your own. How would you like to move forward?”
Chelsea sucks in a breath. “What do you mean?”
“What are your demands?” Harlan asks.
Arlene warningly aims a finger at his face and he moves back from it as if she has superpowers.
“The paperwork you’ve signed promises a safe working environment. If this were a different kind of business, you could go talk to HR, file a complaint, possibly take us to court.”
Because a man who could have nearly any woman he wanted tried to kiss me? Chelsea thinks but definitely does not say.
“But since we’re here and I’m basically the HR department, we’d like to know how we can make your working environment more agreeable.” Arlene’s eyebrows rise, and a small smile plays around her mouth. “Within reason.”
“I need a phone and phone service,” Chelsea says first, because that’s the thing she thinks about constantly. “Today. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but I need phone, texting, email. And I’d love to be able to watch a show at night on a tablet or something.”
“Okay,” Arlene says, nodding. “A work-issued phone seems very reasonable for an upcoming star of the VFR. Anything else?”
Chelsea’s mind is going a mile a minute, weighing the various benefits and drawbacks of asking too much, asking too little, and considering how awkward it would be, seeing Harlan every day. Judging by this RV and his previous career and the capital it must take to get the VFR up and running, he’s a very wealthy man—or maybe he has great investors. Still, she likes this job, and she doesn’t want any bad blood.
Really, there’s only one thing she really, truly needs more than anything else.
“I want the vaccine. Soon. And to be able to support my girls. If we do well enough one day, I’d like to bring them along with us, if this is a long-term thing, but the main reason I said yes to this job was because I can’t be around my daughters until I’m safe.”
“We’re working on it—” Arlene starts.
“I don’t have the cash yet,” Harlan admits, deadly serious, which is a relief as she was worried he’d laugh at her. “I have investors I have to pay back. The last year has drained me, and I can’t sell my dumb Miami mansion in this market, and…well, I flat out don’t have the money. But I have feelers out, and I assure you that the very first thing on my list when the VFR hits even bigger is not a new truck or a private jet for myself. It’s to vaccinate every one of our fighters as thanks for taking this chance on me and my dream, just like I promised from the beginning.”
“Then I want better security. And a raise,” Chelsea says, amazed at her own audacity and at the firm command of her voice. Over the past few years, it began to feel as if all her sentences ended on question marks, because it’s easier to take back a question than a statement with a man like David.
Harlan holds in a laugh. “I’ve got two security guys for the talent starting this week with more to come. But honey, you don’t even have a salary yet.”
Chelsea shrugs, playing it cool. “So give me a salary, and then raise it. And then take me back to Target so I can buy some more clothes. And, you know, access to more than one washer and dryer per twelve people would be nice.”
Harlan can’t help himself; he throws back his head and laughs. “Hot damn, Florida Woman. That’s some moxie right there! Arlene, does that sound reasonable to you?”
Arlene cocks her head, her eyes probing. “It’s not about how I feel. It’s about how Chelsea feels. You can still sue, if you like…”
“But the courts are a madhouse right now,” Chelsea finishes for her. “My stepfather is a judge. And…” She doesn’t want to minimize what happened, now that it’s borne ripe fruit, but she’s also not going to set herself up as a diva, as someone who’s more trouble than they’re worth. “I didn’t take offense. I’m just glad I still have a job. No harm done.”
Harlan stands—or tries to. The booth is awfully small for such a large man. He scoots out, hunched over, and then stands, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He smiles at Chelsea, and she realizes her audience is over. She slides out and stands, then makes room for Arlene, who moves behind her. When Harlan holds out his hand, she takes it and shakes, feeling like a child shaking the hand of a bear.
He’s a good man, she realizes. And not because anyone is watching. He just is.
“On behalf of the VFR, thanks for all that you do,” he says.
“It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it,” she responds drily, making him laugh again.
“I’m surrounded by crazy people,” Arlene says.
“I’m so glad I met you in rehab, Arl.”
Arlene playfully swats his arm. “That’s confidential!”
“Only for you. Me? I can say whatever I want.” Harlan bobs his head at Chelsea. “Sorry I got to let TJ kick your ass tomorrow.”
“All in a day’s work.”
And it could go on like that, awkward ripostes ad nauseam, but Arlene says, “C’mon, let’s get you back to breakfast,” and then Chelsea is waving goodbye and stepping down from the cool breath of luxury and back onto the heat-cracked Florida parking lot and thick summer air.
“You did good,” Arlene says as they walk back to the breakfast trailer.
“That was the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me in my life,” Chelsea admits, glad to have her original assumption about Arlene’s skills as a therapist confirmed. “Did that just happen?”
“It did, but you should’ve asked for your own car. When he feels bad, he’ll do just about anything to please the people he likes.”
Chelsea can’t help grinning. She thought she was going to get fired for turning her boss down, and instead, she got most of what she needed.
Apparently standing up for yourself and asking for what you want actually works when the other party’s not a narcissistic asshole.