Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
L ily
“Ma’am. Would you like this to come as well?” The man in the blue coveralls points to the ugly coffee table my ex and I bought at a thrift store. It has memories of my old life all over it.
“No.” I shake my head. “No, thank you. That can go in the donation pile.”
It’s strange, getting used to being the one making the decisions. Keep that, get rid of this, pack that. I could get used to giving orders.
As if reading my mind and needing to remind me who’s really in charge, Rockwell comes up behind me, placing a warm, slightly possessive hand around my waist.
“The donations are ready to be loaded in the truck.” He addresses the poor moving man as if he’s been hitting on me instead of just doing my bidding.
“You didn’t have to come. I could have done this on my own.”
“And let you go alone to get your things? Alone to the apartment where you were being stalked? Over my dead body.”
“Not so alone.” Peering out the window, I eye the three plainclothes guards he’s got posted on the street. I offer him a smile. “But I’m really glad you are here. It’s nice to have company.”
He doesn’t know what to do with my softness. He brushes it off. “Uh, yeah. No problem.” Clearing his throat, he changes subjects. “I noticed you didn’t have that many business casual clothes for the office. We’re going to stop by Daughtry’s Clothing after work. Get you a new wardrobe.”
“No. You don’t have to do that. I owe you so much already. There’s no way I could pay for?—”
“Claudia is going to meet us there. To help you pick stuff out. I’m afraid I’m useless with fashion. She chose my wardrobe as well.” He points down to the furniture truck that’s just pulled onto the street. “Oh, and I’m having a few new pieces delivered. For when the all-clear comes back and this guy isn’t around anymore.”
His words dangle between us, the uncertainty of the future hanging in the air. He’d brought a donation truck with us, saying, “May as well clear up things you don’t want while we collect your stuff.”
I didn’t know he’d had new pieces ordered.
I can’t tell if this piece of information makes me giddy with the glee of being cared for, or sad to think that I’ll be leaving the comfort and beauty of the bustling Village to come back here.
And live alone once more.
After a soft new velvet couch and pretty warm wood coffee table are delivered, we leave my apartment, his driver taking us back to his end of town. The brownstones that are quickly becoming familiar to me appear. We reach his office and I’m glad to have some time to process at my desk.
We spend the rest of the morning and the early afternoon at the office, my mind constantly traveling back to the dimly lit room from the night before, and my hands subtly brushing against my thighs every few minutes, reminding me of the marks left behind by the paddle.
I can’t help but feel a confusing mix of pleasure and shame—something that I’ve never experienced before.
As the day comes to an end, we head toward Daughtry’s, the short walk charged with an awkward silence. I’m not sure what to say or how to feel. He’s so close. Just there, next to me, the man who makes me want to explore the sexiest parts of myself. The man who wants to protect me. Yet still a stranger.
As we draw closer to the store, part of me is excited to get new clothes, and another part is nervous about facing Claudia again. I think she liked me when we chatted in his living room last night, but I tend to have a hard time reading other women when it comes to that kind of thing.
We arrive at Daughtry’s, and I notice that next door is a super fancy-looking jewelry store by the name of Bachman’s Jewelers. My jaw almost drops. I ask, “You guys have your own stores?”
“A few. And a gym. And a nightclub.”
I eye him incredulously, thinking my late-night Googling of the Bachman family didn’t do them justice.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. This is uncharted territory for me, spending money on new clothes, especially when it’s not for a specific occasion. But I’m grateful for the gesture, and I want to try my best to find some pieces that will look professional at Rockwell Enterprises.
We enter the store, and the moment I step inside, the beauty of the place overwhelms me in a good way. It’s like walking into your fairy godmother’s closet where she has all the options set up perfectly displayed, the air filled with the delicate scent of expensive perfumes and soaps.
I find myself falling in love with the store even before I go through the clothing with the expectant-looking Claudia. Rockwell fades to the background, stepping outside to make a call. Claudia, who is always the vivacious one, takes the lead. She shows me dresses, blazers, heels. She insists on jeans and sweaters and loungewear, even though I can’t wear them to work.
Then I see the price tags.
“No, no. Just a few work clothes.” I take the stack of jeans she’s insisted on, putting them back on the shelf. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
She grabs them back down from the shelf. “He said to get you some of everything and you know he’s not a man to say no to.”
“I’m starting to learn that,” I say with a laugh.
“You know something—I’ve never seen him bring a woman home before.” She softly bumps her hip against mine like we’re in on a secret. “You must be special.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I brush off the compliment. “Desperate, more like. I think your brother just feels sorry for me. Don’t go too crazy with the clothes. These things cost a fortune.”
“Please,” she says. “It’s Rock’s money we’re spending, and he’s got more than the good lord himself. I mean being a Rockwell is one thing, but tapping into the Bachman fortune on top of that?—”
I interject with the question that’s been on the forefront of my mind since meeting him. “How do you become a Bachman, anyway?”
She puts the jeans down on a bench and steers us toward the shoes. “If you’re a man, typically someone from the family has had eyes on you. They introduce you, get you involved, then if it’s your fate to be a Bachman man, you’ll go through a grueling initiation to make it so.”
I didn’t read any of that on Google. This sounds more like a mafia than a family.
“And the women?” I watch as she chooses carefully, going mostly with high heels. Guess I better learn to walk in them.
“The whole thing is a little dark ages, a little sexist, but if you’re a woman, the only way in is by marriage.” She piles a stack of soft cardigans into my arms, their colors ranging from black to pastel pink. “Oh, good. They’ve got the cashmere in stock. You can never have enough of these. The office is freezing. Cardigans keep you warm without ruining your outfit. They’re lifesavers.”
“And what am I?” I ask.
“Oh!” She eyes me, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. A little black dress?”
“No, not an article of clothing,” I laugh. “What am I in the Bachman world?”
“Sorry. Got lost there for a sec. Went a little too deep into the shopping spree world.” Flicking through a rack of dress skirts, she pulls out a few in my size, answering simply, “You’re a friendly.”
“What does that mean?”
She holds a skirt up to my waist, then gives it her nod of approval. “You’re like a cardigan. You are there to help out, but not steal the show. People deemed trustworthy enough to work for the family are considered Bachman friendlies.”
She continues, “And, if you read your NDA closely, you’ll know that you also consented to a deep dive on your background.”
“Here, let me.” A trio of saleswomen scurries over, taking all the items we chose and setting them to the side for us.
“Thanks. And don’t forget the jeans, please,” Claudia tells them. “They’re on the bench over there.”
I hand the stack of sweaters over to the youngest saleswoman. When she’s out of hearing range, I tell Claudia, “I didn’t look close enough to read the part about the background check, but I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” She offers me a soft smile. “And Bachman friendlies are paid well. Very well, as you’ll see when your first check hits your bank account, which, knowing Rockwell, it probably already has.”
“Gosh. You think?” I hold back the urge to grab my phone from my purse and check my bank balance on the app. And then jump up and down in place if there really is money in there. That seems a bit rude.
Claudia focuses on athleisure wear, insisting that I choose leggings and soft cropped hoodies and waffle-knit dolphin hem shorts. “I wish I could get Rock into something more casual. He’d look great in some gray sweatpants but of course, my brother can’t go anywhere unless he’s buttoned into a starched shirt. I swear, the more grays he gets, the more he looks like our grandpa.” She eyes me. “You’re young. Maybe you can convince him to update his look. Wait here. I’ll grab a few things to have delivered to him. See if you can at least get him to try them on.”
“I’m on it!” I wait for her to walk away, my curiosity getting the best of me. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I check my bank app. “Holy Toledo,” I whisper to myself, almost passing out at the number on the screen.
Is this for real?
Claudia returns. I quickly slip my phone back into my pocket. “Find anything good?”
“Yes. A pair of jeans—for the love of all that is good in this world, don’t let him iron a crease in the front of them before he wears them; a crewneck sweater—I don’t think even your cute little face will get him into an actual hoodie; and some jogger sweats with a long sleeve tee.”
I picture him in a more casual outfit, us walking hand in hand through the city, fresh lattes from Perkies in our free hand, wearing matching couture leisurewear.
Like a real couple.
We move over to the undergarments. I blush as she chooses all kinds of lacy silk bras and panties. I think of the skirt I wear. The only one I had before this trip, the one whose zipper has not yet been lowered. Will he like me in all these fancy things? Will he want to see me in them?
Another question bubbles up. He’s said he was working on finding out who is behind that black sedan but there haven’t been any updates yet. I say, “He also said that they offer their employees protection.”
“As a friendly, you’ll be protected by the family’s security team as well.” A white G-string in her hand, she locks gazes with me. “This is by far the best organization to work for. Trust me.”
Opting for comfort and preparing for the period I still need to have, I grab a stack of cotton bikini-cut panties in my size to add to the pile. “Organization. Family. I’m confused.”
“We started out over a hundred years ago as a group of men who essentially watched one another’s backs in the city. It grew from there, the first few decades looking like something akin to the mafia.” I hold back a shout of, ‘I knew it!’ Instead, I let her continue with, “Stealing from the rich to redistribute to the poor.”
“Okay,” I say.
“But now all our businesses are legit. We pay taxes. We are big on charity work. We make a lot of money, but we give a lot away too, never forgetting our roots.” She gives me a grin. “Like across the street. The bar over there? One of our leaders, Bronson, he’s starting a new bar. And for his bartenders? He’s only hiring people who were born with hearing disabilities who haven’t been able to find aid or work. The bar is rigged with brand new family created tech. A system of buttons and lights that lets the bartender know what you are ordering by sight instead of sound.”
“That’s amazing. I love that idea. I had a friend in college who was born deaf. She would love to have a job like that, working somewhere fun like a bar. It must be nice to have a found family, a support network that strong when you become a Bachman.” Claudia is so sexy and smart. She must have caught herself an amazing man from this family. “Who are you married to?”
“Oh! I’m not. Not married. Nope. I’m single. I’m just a friendly.” She gives an embarrassed laugh. “I guess I just think of myself as one, being Rock’s older sister and all.”
I hate that I’ve made her uncomfortable. I put my hand over hers. “There should be a rule about really awesome sisters who keep their siblings in line. You should be an automatic Bachman for reining in someone as strong willed as Rockwell.”
“Thanks. That’s sweet.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s just that you’re so beautiful and you know so much?—”
“It’s okay. Really. It’s just that I haven’t had much luck in the dating world.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“It’s pretty simple, really. Love, like work, I throw my full self into it. You know?”
“Yes.” I get that. “My last relationship was all-encompassing.”
“Exactly. That’s the way I like it. Only it’s never been reciprocated. At least not at the same level I’m delivering. If I like a guy, I dump all my unfertilized, aging eggs in his basket so to speak. And I scare them away. As of now, I haven’t found a man who is as into me as I am into him. I like to blame it on the Peter Pan syndrome so many rich, good-looking men suffer from in the city. Too much to offer and too many women around who are willing to partake. No strings attached.”
“I’m sure dating in the city, in this social circle can be hard,” I say.
“That’s what I tell myself. But I know it’s not true. I’m over the top. Too much to handle.” She shakes her head sadly.
“No, you’re not,” I say, reassuring her. “You’re just perfect and one day, you’ll meet a man who is man enough to treat you the way you deserve.”
“I never lose hope. Pathetic, I know. But here we are, so…” Her tone drops off.
“Oh, Claudia. Please. Let me tell you about bad dating luck.” And I dispel all her discomfort by telling her how a stranger had to buy my pregnancy test because I didn’t even have ten dollars after my terrible ex-boyfriend cleared out my savings just before he left me.
And I make her laugh. And it feels really good to see the humor in my misery. And to know even successful women who look like they have their life together struggle just as much as the rest of us sometimes.
We stand at the counter, watching the saleswomen carefully pack each outfit in boxes. I try to digest the idea of someone investing so much time and effort into my fashion choices. It’s a weird yet comforting feeling, knowing that someone cares about my appearance enough to do this for me.
But it also makes this protective cocoon I’ve been slipped into feel more like a bubble, one that could pop at any minute.
What happens if I’m too much? If I give all my eggs to Rockwell and he leaves just like my ex? I get the feeling the Bachmans won’t feel so friendly toward me if I lose his interest.
I’ll be right back where I started. Broke and alone. I think of his passionate kisses, the way he touches me. The way he makes me feel protected, safe, and cared for.
If he were to up and leave…
This time, I fear the heartbreak would destroy me.