Chapter Twenty-One Rae
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rae
“OKAY. SPILL,” SAM SAYS through a mouthful of fried food.
The two of us are sitting in a back booth at the extremely busy Galaxy Diner, less than a block from work.
Over the last half hour, I’ve watched my best friend down something called a Nuclear Waste Dog, slathered in salsa and chili, cheese, sauerkraut, and several other entirely unnecessary things.
She’s now plowing her way through our shared Tater Tot basket and guzzling a milkshake while awaiting the fried OREOs she ordered for dessert.
“Spill what?” I reply without meeting her look.
“What’s going on with you and Work Daddy?”
I almost choke on the bite of hoagie I’ve just taken, hunch, and look around to make sure no one we know happens to be sitting in a neighboring booth. “Shhhh! Are you kidding me right now? You can’t say that this close to the office.”
“Oh my god. I’m right, aren’t I? You and Work Daddy are banging.”
“We are not!”
“And yet your reaction could not be more suspicious.” Of course Sam knows I’m hiding something. She knows everything about me, from my star sign to the way I always hiccup after my first sip of soda. “Am I gonna have to flog it out of you? I could use one of those cat tails.”
“A cat-o’-nine-tails? Do you even know what that is?” I take another bite, studiously concentrating on my hoagie’s crisp outside and melty middle.
“It’s a hairy whip.”
I set the rest of my sandwich down, working hard to calm my oversensitive gag reflex. “Gross, Sam.”
“A wig on a stick.”
“Shut up. No. It’s a whip with, like, a bunch of thin strips of leather.”
She pulls out her phone and searches. “Hm. Okay. Kinda mop-like.” Nodding, eyes still down, she asks, “You see any of that at the sex club on Friday? With Work Daddy?”
“No! And it’s not a sex club. It’s a BDSM club. Also, he wasn’t…” I let it trail off, unable to finish the lie.
“Aha! You did see him there! I knew it! You two totally recognized each other yesterday, didn’t you?
Didn’t you? Oh my goddess, you crashing into him like…
Wait.” She bends close, her dark eyes huge.
“You called him sir. You never call people sir. Shit, Rae. He’s your daddy!
” Her voice, which has gone from zero to a million decibels, is starting to attract looks.
“Stop it. Shush. Please. Come on!” I whisper, patting the air to get her to quiet. “I’ve got to go back and work in the same room as him, okay? It’s been tense.” And we haven’t even made it through Tuesday.
“Tell me everything.”
My head lowered, I whisper, “Yes. He was the Dom I mentioned.”
“Guess the cat-o’-nine-tails is out of the bag!”
“Please, Sam, just keep it down.”
“This is amazing. What, was he, like, all done up in leather? Oh, sweet Jesus, does he wear chaps and stuff? Butt hanging out? No. No, no, please tell me you’ve seen his wanger. Please. I just wanna—”
“Stop. Now. I can’t.” I point at myself. “HR manager, remember? It’s inappropriate and unprofessional and—”
“OREOs!” our waiter announces as he sets the plate down with a flourish and takes off for another table.
As the smell of deep-fried batter wafts my way, I sit up and say, “Listen. I’ll explain, but you cannot mention this. At all. To him, to Dorothy, to anyone. Okay?”
“O ye of little faith.” She shoves a huge bite of deep-fried, oozing cookie into her mouth, shaking her head at me in that disappointed way she has. “When have I ever let a secret out?”
Actually, never. She’s good like that. A vault.
Otty told Sam about losing her virginity the day after it happened, and she never once mentioned it to me.
I didn’t find out for ages. I’m still kind of peeved that my sister told my best friend something that vital, and she never once gave so much as a hint.
In the end, Hannah’s the one who spilled the beans.
To this day, I don’t get why I was left out of the loop. Honestly, it still hurts.
“Speaking of secrets.” I eye Sam, that hurt squiggling in my stomach. “You still haven’t told me what’s going on with you.”
Her eyes go round with fake innocence. “Eee?” she says around a mouthful.
“Don’t even try it, Samantha. You’ve got a hickey right there.”
The second she slaps her hand to her neck, I give her my evilest laugh. “Aha! I was right!”
“Where is it?”
“I lied. There’s no hickey.”
“You evil wench!”
“Who are you boinking?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ll spill my beans if you tell me what Work Daddy’s wanger’s like.”
“Can we please not say wanger?”
“Okay. His dingaling? Peepee? Phallus? Man meat? Knob? Oh god, it’s an anaconda, isn’t it? I knew that guy was packing. Look at his swagger. I mean that BDE is above and beyon—”
“You’re dead to me.” I sit back in my seat, arms crossed, doing my best to look disapproving when, really, I’m working hard to hold the laughter in. “Seriously, though. There was no nudity. Got it? I saw nothing.”
“But did you feel it? Like, in your butt crack? Like at the club, did he nudge it up against your mound? Was there dry-humping? Nothing between you and his impressive dick print but those expensive-looking man pants. I’ll bet you could gauge his girth and—”
“Oh my god, Sam.” A laugh bubbles out as I shout, “There was no penis contact. No penis! At all!”
Of course, that has to be the exact moment the song ends. In the few seconds before another begins, I swear every single head in the diner turns our way.
The word penis seems to echo endlessly as my cheeks burn up.
“No penises, huh?” Klaus marches up to the booth wearing a bright smile behind his giant red beard.
He’s got on shorts, despite the chill, suspenders over a button-down shirt, sleeves folded up to his elbows, and the usual amount of red chest hair peeking out at the collar.
The outfit, I assume, is why everyone calls him Klaus.
He looks like he came straight here from nineteenth-century Bavaria.
His real name, I know from his personnel file, is Eugene Harvey Echols.
Because he’s apparently happier with the Klaus moniker than his birth name, HR discretion ensures that his legal name is not something I’d ever divulge. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not.” Sam scoots over to make room for him. “You wanna hoard all penis contact for yourself.”
“Guilty.” Klaus watches me while working to shove his middle into the narrow space between the table and bench seat. “Whose penis are we discussing?” Klaus’s gaze seesaws between the two of us.
“Nobody’s,” Sam and I say simultaneously.
“Shame. I was hoping this was about…” Klaus leans in, fanning himself with one big hand. “Work Daddy.”
“Oh god.” My face sinks into my hands. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“I didn’t say a word,” Sam insists. “I swear!”
“There is nothing to say!” I look up and bang my fist on the table, rattling dishes and, frankly, myself. “Please stop. This is unprofessional and… uncalled for.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“But Work Daddy’s so evil and hot and—”
“Stop. I mean it.” I look at Klaus. “Don’t call him that.”
“Okay then.”
“Either of you.”
“Scout’s honor,” says Sam, as if she ever participated in Scouts in her life.
My skeptical glance slides from Klaus to Sam and back. They’re both obviously lying.
“I gotta go.” I stand, grab my things, and turn. “Do not refer to him as Work Daddy on Slack. For your own sake. I don’t want either of you fired.” I look at them again and give them a final, firm “I mean it” before stomping to the counter to pay.
On the way, I’m pretty sure I hear Klaus ask, “How long till they bang it out?” which I choose to ignore.
I’m still seething as I hurry back to the office, turn the final corner, and stutter to a halt when I catch sight of the building where it all started. There it is. The comedy club, the entrance to Sugar, and that anonymous metal door leading straight down into Richmond’s sexy underworld.
As if conjured by my thoughts, the door to the club swings open as I come even with it, and Harlow emerges.
It takes me a moment to recognize her. Maybe it’s because Friday night’s sleek black outfit has been replaced with shorts and sneakers and a VCU sweatshirt.
More college athlete than intimidating bouncer.
“Hey.” She gives me a big smile. “What you doing?”
“I work here.” I point at the glass door leading to the small lobby and the stairs and elevator beyond it.
“Yeah? That’s cool. You coming back to the club this week?”
“I wish.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Well, I’d planned to, but…”
I lose my train of thought when the glass door opens, and Grant himself steps onto the sidewalk, all business with his laptop bag and his expensive suit. His reaction, when he sees us talking, is almost comical. Friendly surprise followed by squinty-eyed annoyance.
“Hey. Just the man I was waiting for.” Harlow gives him a shoulder bump.
“Ready for lunch?” The second his eyes leave me and go to her, he smiles. Like genuinely smiles. I hardly recognize the expression after being on the receiving end of nothing but scowls.
Oh wow. I get it. They’re an item. Harlow must be the reason he isn’t in the market for a sub. Strong and beautiful and confident and kind Harlow.
It’s probably the fried pickles or flashbacks of the term man meat, but I feel sick.
When Grant slides his arm around Harlow’s waist and gives her an affectionate squeeze, I wave, mumble something about getting back, and head to the door, feeling foolish for my own disappointment.
Behind me, Harlow says, “So you and Sunny are working together? That must be fun.”
I’m halfway across the lobby, exterior door about to close, when Grant snorts. “Fun?” His tone suggests the very opposite. “Try excru—” The rest of his reply is lost when the door shuts, cutting off the sounds of traffic and everything else. Thank god.
Oh, that’s nice. Maybe I’m not his dream sub or whatever. Maybe I’m annoying and too distracting at work, but the fact is that we are now colleagues, and the least he can do is pretend not to hate my guts.
That’s it, I decide. I’m putting something very, VERY good on that list. I’ve no idea what, yet, but it’ll put him right in his place.
I trudge all the way up the steps to the office, press my phone to my ear when I see Blake waiting for me, and mouth, Sorry!
As soon as I’ve shut the office door, I throw open the closet, ready, so ready to show him, because who does he think he is?
He’s by far the more disruptive of the two of us, so he can…
What the hell?
My mouth drops open as I read the new rule five.
That’s it. I am over Grant Bowman’s shenanigans.
Entirely out of fucks, I stomp over to my desk, grab the fattest permanent marker I’ve got, and cross the new line out.
There.
That’s better.