Harper
Sadie: Of course. We need to discuss how you told a poor innocent bartender to strip for you!
“How on earth did you mix up who you were interviewing?” Sadie exclaims, her voice pitching an octave higher with each iteration of the same question. Since this is the third time she’s asked it without waiting for a reply, I would assume only dogs can hear her now.
She plops herself down onto my oversized couch, assuming her usual position, burrowing into the mountain of throw pillows with a bucket of butter lover’s popcorn in one hand and the brightest, fluffiest, pink blanket in the other.
Even if she burrowed far enough down into the cushions where I couldn’t see her anymore, I would know she was sitting there because of that damn blanket.
I use the exact same one, except mine is a dark charcoal that goes with the rest of the neutral décor of my house.
After about the fifth or sixth time we fought over it, I decided getting a second one was probably for the best. It’s from one of those big warehouse stores that you always swore as a kid you would never buy your clothes or home décor from.
I resisted as long as I could, but fuck that thing is soft.
Since Sadie deemed it her blanket, she insisted she pick the color, and like a sap I allowed her to. So now I hide the pink fluff ball the minute she leaves my house and only take it out when she’s over.
I could have just returned it without her and gotten a cream or white one, but I think she enjoys watching my eye twitch every time I have to take it out of the cabinet. Depriving her of such entertainment at this point would just be cruel.
“Don’t even get me started. The whole thing was a massive fuck-up, and of course Tessa basically had a meltdown thinking she made the mistake,” I glare as Sadie aggressively rolls her eyes, never really being a huge fan of Tessa’s slightly over the top perfectionism.
“We aren’t even hiring a new bartender—he never should have been there to begin with.
So, when Tessa told me I had an interview, I just assumed it was for a dancer position because that’s the open position I knew needed to be filled,” I explain, weaving the tasseled end of a throw pillow through my fingers.
“Other than the assistant, which now I don’t have to keep looking for,” I shrug. “So, it worked out, right?”
“Did it?” she asks, wiggling her butt to sink, somehow, further into the couch, practically becoming one.
“Do you even know if he will be a good assistant? What if he doesn’t know how to work a calendar, or he calls celebrities and says something offhand or careless?
I’m obviously going to show him the ropes on the security end of things, but still, it’s a big risk,” she sits up slightly, face deadpanning.
“Harper…what if he calls everyone bro?” her limbs twitching in disgust as the shudder passes through her.
“Trust me, I’ve thought of all these things, but what was I supposed to do?
I basically humiliated myself and him. I couldn’t just send him packing after all of that,” I say, replaying the way he dropped to his knees before me, like it was physically painful for him to keep that distance between us.
I clear my throat, shaking my head to clear away the instant replay and look up to find Sadie imitating the Cheshire Cat.
“What’s wrong with your face?” I say, twirling a finger at her.
“Absolutely nothing. People smile all the time. Not you, of course. Can’t possibly show people you don’t really have fangs,” she says, pulling her pointer fingers up to the sides of her mouth and hissing until I bat her hands away.
“I smile when I’m with you!” I say, feeling defensive, even though we both know she’s the only one I allow myself to fully relax around.
“Yes, of course. Because I’m a delight and you simply can’t help yourself.
But then I go home, and you return to your life of vigilante crime fighting, one lap dance at a time,” she sighs wistfully.
“You know, even Batman had a Robin. Lord forbid anyone outside your Fortress of Solitude see you are capable of showing emotion.” She breathes a laugh before shoveling in a handful of popcorn that makes her cheeks puff out.
I hesitate, the words on the tip of my tongue, trying to decide if I should correct her that Batman didn’t have a Fortress of Solitude; that was Superman. Obviously, Batman has the bat-cave.
“Hey, I’m just teasing you,” she tacks on, misunderstanding my hesitation to respond.
“I understand you not bringing other people into your fortress,” she says in a light tone, though the corners of her eyes crinkle as she looks me over.
It would be silly for her to feel bad about pointing out a very obvious aspect of my life: solitude.
But I know she cares more deeply for others’ feelings than her own.
“Don’t worry, between you and the club, I have no time or energy to bring anyone into my Fortress of Solitude.” I chuckle, throwing a few kernels of popcorn at her.
“Ew! When you say it like that it sounds dirty,” she gags, leaning forward as far as she can in her cocoon of fluff to grab a fresh box of conversation candy hearts, a years-long vice that I have happily enabled.
“Speaking of dirty, tell me more about the new guy who had you drooling onto your shirt a minute ago? I met him briefly, and he seemed nice enough. I gave him the key fobs and told him how to work entrances and all that boring stuff. He’s not my type though,” she throws out casually as I arch a brow in question.
He's everyone’s type.
“Blond,” she replies, which comes out sounding a lot like “duh.”
“There is nothing to tell. He’s going to be my assistant on a trial basis to start out.
I’ll have to show him how the calendar works and how the filing system has been set up.
I guess the biggest thing he’s going to have to learn is what he needs to do for me within each aspect of the club, and who his main points of contact will be for each.
How to handle any complaints, from patrons or employees,” I pause to take a sip of my Diet Coke before I launch into how he still needs to be told the more nuanced rules and etiquette of the club.
“Oh my God, I don’t care about any of that. Tell me about his dick.”
I can feel the sip solidify in my throat, constricting my airway enough that I violently start coughing. Spluttering soda everywhere, like one of those spit takes they do on comedy shows. But far less graceful, and definitely not well-received.
“Ugh, ew! Noooo! It got all over my blanket!” Sadie’s laughter morphs into a whine when she realizes she might have to get a new blanket for the night. Maybe it will be ruined and need to be thrown away. What a shame.
“Where the hell did that question even come from!” I’m finally able to squeak out, coughing into a napkin I grabbed off the coffee table between words.
“I felt like it was a fairly obvious question to ask. You got all dreamy-eyed when I asked about him and his interview,” she says, the last word punctuated with air quotes.
“So, he either has moves you’ve never seen, or he has a monster down there.
No wonder you kept the door closed; I would probably want a private showing too. ”
“I have no idea, actually,” I admit. “Also, I didn’t close the door. He did that all on his own,” I tell her, throwing my hands up in mock defense.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” she sits up a little straighter, letting the blanket loosen its death grip around her. “What were you doing in there if he wasn’t swinging it around?” she asks, arms flailing about her face for emphasis.
I close my eyes briefly to center my thoughts.
Sadie and I have always been opposites in every way.
I’m private, she’s an open book. I dislike big crowds, she would surf them.
I smirk more than smile, and I don’t think she will ever fear getting frown lines.
But she’s my balance, my counterpart in every way. I ground her, and she sets me free.
While we both call Cirque home, her job stands strictly on the security end of the business.
She rarely asks me about employees other than the basic information she needs to run the background check.
She’s only ventured to the deep end once when she brought home a stray singer, which actually worked out pretty well.
Other than that, she’s barely showed interest in the cirque part of Cirque.
Sadie doesn’t mess with my end of the job, and I don’t pretend to understand what she is talking about when she tells me about the upgraded code for the motion detectors in the private rooms, or the newest keyboard that makes a massive difference and she needs to have it.
“So, Tessa interrupted the interview before we got anywhere close to that. He’s going to be with me now anyway, so the rest is a moot point.
I think he will do well. He handled the situation well, given everything,” I tell her honestly, shrugging my shoulders to distract from the heat rising to paint my cheeks, remembering in vivid detail just how well he handled me.
“Oh, I know. He’s all yours now,” she teases, leaning back and folding her interlocked hands under her chin as she stares at me. Like I just stepped on a booby-trap and she gets to collect her prize.
“You can’t just pick out one part of everything I said and ignore the rest. I think he will be able to fulfill the job requirements, and if he doesn’t, then I will have to do what I was supposed to do to begin with and hire a new assistant. Why are you so interested in this, anyway?”
“Because, big sister, in the years we have been doing this, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush when I brought up an employee,” she states.
Her tone is smug, but there is an undercurrent of, dare I say, caution mixed in, like the idea of someone making me blush means the four horsemen will be riding down the street any minute now.
“Look, he was…different from most of the guys that come into the club, staff or member,” I tell her honestly, admitting for the first time since he walked into my office that his interview had any effect on me.
I had successfully convinced myself he wasn’t the reason I had to close the door, and keep it closed, for the rest of the day so I would be able to focus on work.
“What do you mean, different?” she asks, now outright baffled, eyebrows so high they might blend into her hairline pretty soon.
“He surprised me is all,” I answer flatly. “I didn’t think he had it in him.” I get up from the couch to grab a new drink, leaving Sadie and her prying eyes to stare after me.
Sadie doesn’t know all my secrets, but she has a unique ability to tell when someone is lying, and I don’t know how to explain to her that it was more than just a shock factor.
Colton didn’t treat me like the boss, or like I held his job in my hand.
He didn’t stumble back when I pushed. He…
well, he pushed back. He was there for a different job, and instead of telling me there was a mistake, he whipped his belt off and smiled.
Smiled. Like he couldn’t wait to see what I asked him to do next.
He walked in like a poster boy for good choices and Bible study, but I was the one looking for a confessional by the end.
His performance wasn’t bravado or over the top. It was slow, sensual, and mesmerizing. A quiet confidence in the way he moved.
“Anyway,” I clear my throat and walk back over to the couch, picking up and tossing Sadie the remote, not wanting to give her a window to keep this line of questioning open. “What movie are we watching?” I ask as I sink into my designated side of the couch.
When Sadie doesn’t answer me, I slowly turn around, already knowing what I would find. She sits there, leg folded under her butt, a new blanket already draped across her lap, with a shit-eating grin just waiting for my gaze.
“No. Not again. I can’t watch it again.”
“Pleaseeeeee,” Sadie pleads, scrambling across the couch to push her cheek against mine as her arms wrap around my shoulders, apparently resorting to torture to get her way. “It’s my favorite of all time, and it’s been so long!”
“Because you fall asleep in the first five minutes, and I end up watching a movie that is absolutely ridiculous and unbelievable.” I argue, disentangling her limbs and retreating further into my corner.
“How could anyone not like Sweet Home Alabama?”
“It’s quite easy. The main characters despise each other for most of this movie. It’s insane. They would never end up getting together in the end. No thanks. Pick something else, please.”
The whining continues, the pleading gets louder, and a pillow is thrown at me when I say that the enemies to lovers trope is overrated. I supply option after option of other movies to pick from. I may be strong willed, but no one is stubborn like my little sister.
Soon enough, Reese Witherspoon is dancing in the moonlight with her not so ex-husband to the steady beat of Sadie’s light snoring.