Chapter 11
Iopened the door expecting to see the still impeccably pressed suit. Instead, there stood a short girl wearing pajama bottoms with pink cacti printed all over them and a large black hoodie with the word “beg” printed across the chest.
“Girl, why are you getting home so late, and who was the sex on a stick that just walked you to your door?”
“Get in here.” I laughed, making room for Sabrina, my best friend who lived across the hallway. “That was my boss, the DA, and he is not sex on a stick.”
“Oh my God, please tell me you are hitting that!” She walked into my studio with our girl dinner under her arm. Three packets of chicken-flavored ramen noodles, half a bag of a discount store brand frozen vegetable medley, and a bottle of two-buck chuck. “I need protein. Do you have any?”
“There are a few eggs in the fridge.”
“You know you don’t actually have to keep eggs in the fridge. They are fine on the counter. Eggs in the fridge is such an American thing.”
Sabrina was a sous chef at some fancy French restaurant. Which meant she prepared food all day she couldn’t afford to eat and worshiped at the altar of the head chef, some asshole with a name I didn’t bother remembering, who belittled her talent as “too Americanized to be anything of substance.”
“It doesn’t matter. The fridge stopped working, so now it’s just an insulated pantry,” I tossed over my shoulder.
“You should call the super about that.” She followed me to the little kitchenette that barely had more than a hot plate on top of one cupboard, a sink, and a broken mini fridge.
I turned to look at her as I pulled out the only pot I owned, and we both started laughing.
“I’ll get right on that,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye. “Did you just get in, too?”
“I did. Chef Jean made us all stay a little late tonight for a VIP table. It was ridiculous. Don’t those entitled, wealthy assholes know that when they keep a restaurant open just to finish a glass of wine, the entire kitchen is stuck there just in case they want something else? We didn’t even get overtime, and they stiffed the waitress, saying her attitude wasn’t worthy of any tip that didn’t involve finishing school. The poor girl was in tears. She worked her ass off for them.”
“If they did know, they wouldn’t care. It’s the way the world works.” I took a seat on the one rickety stool I owned and watched her take about three dollars’ worth of ingredients and turn them into a delicious meal. Would it earn a Michelin star? No. Would it fill my belly? Absolutely.
“Why are you getting back so late, and why was your boss dropping you off?”
I was distracted by the sound of a police siren.
Granted, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Nor was it unusual to see police cars pull up to my building. But I recalled the phone call Harrison had made as he was walking away.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t have!
Oh my God!
Two police cars with flashing lights pulled up to my building. The men who usually loitered on the steps selling drugs instantly ran off. I waited to see if the cops were going to get out of their cars, but they stayed put.
He did.
I wouldn’t leave with him, so the man called in police surveillance.
Not wanting Sabrina to come to the window and ask questions, I answered her while I continued to watch the cop cars, praying they would move along. “We were working late.”
“Ohhh, working late, burning that midnight oil all alone with DA Dreamy in his office, well past midnight.”
She was teasing me, but a warmth still bloomed over my chest from thoughts about the way he licked the coffee from my breasts and the way he kissed me.
“Nothing like that. We were actually working.”
“I bet you were working. Working that thick cock.” She swayed her hips from side to side and dumped the ramen noodles into the now boiling water with the frozen veggies, then took out a bowl to start scrambling the eggs.
Thankfully, when Sabrina was in front of a stove, even if it was just a sad single-burner hot plate, her eyes didn’t leave it, so I didn’t have to worry about her seeing the guilt or longing that was probably written all over my face.
“It’s not like that. We are from two different worlds. As far as he is concerned, I am just a sexless android there to be used as a tool to help win the case he is building. I might as well be a printer or a copy machine. A random piece of office equipment that he uses, and only really thinks about if it stops working or malfunctions.”
“That is horrible. Tell me he doesn’t treat you like some inanimate thing.”
“No, he doesn’t, he is professional and kind. He even ordered Chinese for us for dinner, and…”
“Wait, are you not hungry?” she asked, turning to look at me.
“No, I am starving. He fed me like I was some society woman who could live off of twelve calories. Keep cooking.”
I motioned for her to keep going as I stepped away from the window. “What I am trying to say is that he was professional and sees me as what I am. Someone who is there to help win this case. Which is fine. I see him as a great bullet point to add to my law school applications and a way to add experience to help me land some fabulous job afterward. Maybe working with him again in the DA’s office in, or at least somewhat closer to, an equal capacity. Or maybe I won’t ever see him again because I will be working in some fabulous high-rise in Manhattan that will pay me enough money to live the good life.”
“You mean to live like someone who can afford a chicken and not just a few eggs.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “Oh, the dreams that dreamers dream. Aren’t they so lovely?”
“I mean, like someone who can afford to invest in your restaurant, even though restaurants are terrible investments.”
I got up to get the chipped bowls while she drained the noodles.
She then added flavor packets to the eggs and dumped them into the steaming noodles, scrambling them to perfection.
I would never understand how that worked. I did try it once. I made an inedible mess and went hungry that night.
She dished the bowls and handed one to me, and we moved to the thrift store couch where we sat crossed-legged, our bowls in our laps while we ate and chatted.
We talked about her day and the normal bullshit, then I gave her a rundown of my day, starting with the dumping of the coffee and the changing in the private bathroom to avoid being seen by Ally. I skipped all the stuff about what happened in the bathroom, but I did tell her how Mr. Astrid ripped into Ally when she made a pass at him.
We both cackled, and I really wished I could have seen Ally’s face.
It was about one in the morning when Sabrina headed to her own tiny apartment to crash, and I tried to spot-clean my shirt before giving up on it and tossing it.
I lay down on my thin mattress and stared at the ceiling as the blue-white-and-red flashes from the police cars below created a tie-dyed firework display in my apartment.
It was fine.
Tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow, I wouldn’t let my mind drift to how he tasted, how the deep rumble of his voice made my knees weak, or how my skin prickled from his eyes traveling down my body.
Tomorrow, I would be the image of professionalism, and my work would exceed his expectations.
Tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.
Otherwise, I didn’t know how I would survive Mr. Harrison Astrid.