Gabe
H e’s crushed her spirit. Again. Christ, I hate when he does that.
It happens every morning: the sweet, bubbly assistant settles down behind the desk, all pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing some crazy new dress in clashing colors or animal print or whatever. She’s so out of place in that room, it’s like seeing a parrot among pigeons. And when she catches my eye… fuck, she lights up like the Fourth of July. Grins wider, blushes harder, and squirms in that desk chair of hers, pressing her legs together beneath the table where I can see them.
Never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like it. Seeing this girl is like being struck by lightning, even on a clear, sunny day like today.
Then that boss fella comes stomping out of his office to grind her under his boot heel. Every morning I watch it happen. And every morning she wilts , fiddling with the ends of her dark hair. What does that jackass say to her anyway?
Whatever it is, once he’s gone she hunches over her desk and types away at her keyboard, just as broken and bored as the rest of the workers in that building. Makes my chest ache to see it all over again.
And this morning is the same as yesterday, because I’ve got impossible daydreams running through my brain—things like my scuffed work boot kicking the window in, sparkling shards of glass dropping off me as I march across the room. Things like her relieved laugh as I sling that girl over my shoulder and steal her away for good, carrying her far across the city rooftops, wind streaming through her dark hair. Stuff like that.
It’s wishful thinking. Complete bullshit. Obviously.
But fuck, I hate seeing her all slumped over like that.
Today’s dress is teal colored, with criss-crossy straps and with a white t-shirt underneath. Bet if I so much as waved at that girl, I’d get grubby hand prints on that white top.
It’s a good reminder, especially when the life has gone out of her like that: I’m not the knight she needs.
Stay. Away.
It’s good advice for myself, but when she looks up, I’m still staring. Practically boring two eye holes in the thick pane of glass. Vibrating in the cold with sheer longing.
“Boss man?”
Sniffing hard, I turn to my second in command, Jimmy. When did he sneak up that ladder? How long has he been standing there? “Yeah?”
“Everything good?” Jimmy leans around me, squinting into the building, and I fight the urge to move and block his view. I may trust this man, may love him like a grouchy older brother, but that doesn’t mean I want his eyes on her. “Those roof tiles have arrived. The boys are getting a train going up the levels, handing them up here.”
I grunt. “Good.”
I’m still antsy as I step to the edge, peering over the scaffolding rail—like there are hundreds of fire ants crawling under my skin. Jimmy sees it, but he says nothing. That’s why he’s my second—or part of it, anyway. He knows what’s relevant to the job, and when to back the hell off.
“We’ll, uh. We’ll get ‘em up here, then.”
He’s halfway back down the ladder before I remember to respond. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
Eight floors up. It’s not that much, in the scheme of things—we’ve all worked plenty higher. But it’s still funny leaning over the rail and seeing cars down there and the tops of trees. People walking dogs and pushing prams, all while the world tilts like I might topple forward—
“Nope.” Jerking my chin back, I stand up straight and tug on my safety line. My gut’s gone queasy. We all clip in up here, all take the right precautions, but I still get these moments of weakness—these flashes of sweaty palms and dry throat, even after a decade in this work.
What would the pretty assistant make of that? Would she still stare like I’m her personal hero? Or would she think I’m weak?
Doesn’t matter. Can’t matter.
Nice girls like that don’t end up with guys from my side of the tracks.
* * *
By mid afternoon, she’s perked up again. That’s a daily thing, too. This girl is impossible to keep down, no matter what bullshit that boss keeps spewing in her ear each morning. By the time she’s gone for lunch and bounced back to her desk, she’s beaming again, shoulders loose as she tugs out her chair.
She sits down with a flounce, spreading that teal dress over her thighs. Legs cross, one ankle boot bobbing in the empty air beneath her desk, and pearly white teeth nibble on the chewed end of her pencil.
And she watches me. Watches me. We’re not talking about stolen glimpses here—this girl is completely shameless about it. Like I’m her personal TV channel. Like she’s about to grab a bowl of popcorn to snack on as her big, soulful eyes crawl over every inch of my body.
If anyone else stared at me like that, I’d get pissed off pretty quick. I’m not a critter in a zoo, you know? But when she does it, all flushed with innocent hunger, I find myself flexing my muscles instead. Pushing my hair back when it drops over my forehead; swiping an arm across my sweaty brow and grinning when she squirms.
Fuck, she’s so into this. Watching me. Letting me ham things up, performing for her, lifting heavy shit just so she’ll press her lips together like she’s fighting a moan.
I’m into it too. Hope she never, ever looks away.
“Who’s that?”
Jimmy’s voice is a bucket of cold water down my neck. I grimace, getting back to the guttering I’m fixing, and try to keep my voice level when I reply.
“Dunno. Hattworth’s assistant, I guess.”
Jimmy whistles, and my jaw aches where I grit my molars too hard. “She’s a piece, ain’t she? Staring like that, like you’re a popsicle on a hot summer’s day. Damn. Better watch out, boss—rich girls like that ain’t nothing but trouble.”
My hands pause, and I frown at the carved stonework. The whole reason our crew got called in here, the whole reason it’s such a big job, is because of this stonework. The whole exterior of this building is protected, see. It’s historic , and that means special tools, special processes, special skills. A long, expensive job.
Mr Hattworth in there just about blew a valve when he saw our quote. That’s what it costs, though, and that’s why every time he peers out at us, you can see him daydreaming about shoving us off the scaffolding.
Don’t care about him, though.
“What do you mean, rich girls like that? She’s an assistant, that’s all.”
Jimmy shakes his head slowly, like he’s breaking terrible news at my bedside. “She’s Hattworth’s niece. Lenore.”
Lenore. Her name is pretty as hell, and I tuck that knowledge somewhere down in my rib cage. Even as my gut sinks.
She’s that jerk’s niece? That’s a blow, and no doubt about it.
But if Jimmy knows she’s off limits, why ask me about her? Why test me like that? Fuck.
When I round on him, the back of my neck is tight. I’ve never scrapped on a job before, but right now I’m as close as I’ve ever got to slinging a punch at work.
“So why are you sniffing after her, Jimmy? Why are you asking questions about Lenore at all?”
He rolls his rheumy eyes. Jimmy’s been doing this longer than any of the rest of us, and he’s got the stooped back to prove it. Won’t take an ounce of our nonsense either, even if I am the boss. “For you, you prick. You’re the one eye-fucking her through the glass like there’s no tomorrow.”
Ah. Yeah. Guilty as charged. And there’s no call to blow up at Jimmy, not really, so I roll my neck and get back to work. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Guess she’s rattled me.”
“No kidding.” He scratches the sandpaper stubble on his chin, and I know I’m gonna hate his next words before he even says them. The breeze is cold today, its icy fingers slipping under our clothes.
“You know, … sometimes rich girls want to walk on the wild side. Just for a one-time thing, you know? They get their pretty clothes all creased and dirty with someone like us, and it’s like a vacation they go on so they can tell all their friends about it.”
My chest throbs, and sweat is cold on my skin. Chilling me to my bones.
But Lenore would never gossip about me like that. No way.
“So maybe you could do that for her,” Jimmy goes on. “You could scratch that itch, if you like. Let loose. Why not? Just as long as you don’t go… getting attached. Getting hurt. You hear me?”
As far as Jimmy goes, this is an epic speech. He doesn’t drop his wisdom very often, but when he does, it lands with a clang. My mouth twists, and I bite back all the acid words on my tongue, because they’re not meant for him. Not really.
It’s me I’m mad at. Me, for getting caught up in those pretty rich girl eyes and not knowing I was walking into a trap. My reflection in the window glass looks equal parts pissed off and bewildered. If we were doomed from the start, why did looking at her feel so right?
Knew I had to stay away. I’d already decided that, damn it.
Nothing’s changed. Now I’m just extra sure.
“It’s nothing,” I say gruffly, and bless this man, he nods like he believes me. “We were just staring at each other, like you said. Doesn’t mean anything. Not a big deal.”
Liar, a voice hisses in my brain. It means a whole lot.
And the whole time, my heart thumps out her name: Lenore. Lenore. Lenore.
“Better stop looking at her, then.” Jimmy leans next to my shoulder, prodding at the stonework below the guttering. “Damn, look at this stone. This is crumblier than a birthday cake.”
“Yeah.” We’ve got our work cut out for us still, and she’s gonna be in there the whole time. Watching.
Will it hurt her feelings if I stop playing along? Will she hate me for that?
Lenore.
Christ, what a mess I’ve made. But Jimmy’s right—I never should’ve looked at her at all.
Some things aren’t meant to be.