11. Mandy
11
MANDY
“ T ake off my—what? Why?”
“Why? Because you owe me. You were the one who was supposed to get me a date and you failed.”
I hate being reprimanded. I hate being in trouble. My baseline in my work is perfection. If someone is disappointed in my work quality, especially a man, it triggers an existential crisis.
Tears threaten behind my eyes. “I know I messed up. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.” The hysteria is taking hold.
“You’re going to be sorry.” The words are laced with menace.
“How is sex supposed to help this situation?” I hate how small and helpless I sound.
Guess I was wrong. Salinger is so much worse than my stalker ever would be. What will it be like? Is he going to be big? Is he going to do it right here? Will he even take off his socks?
“Sex?” His baritone drips with derision. “You think I want you? That you’re the type of girl I would debase myself enough to fuck. You? ”
“I don’t know.” The big lump in my throat makes it hard to talk. I don’t understand what he’s doing, what he wants. Is it just to humiliate me?
“No.” His teeth are a breath away from my ear. “The answer is no. I don’t want you in my bed. I don’t even want you in my penthouse, but since you suck at your job, you’re going to take off that fucking sack you’re wearing and get in that dress because you are coming with me to this charity event.”
“I—I can’t. I am not in the mental state to go to a high-society charity function, especially not with my boss.” I just want to run and get away from him, to not let him see me cry.
His palm slams the wall next to my head again.
Yelping, I clap my hands over my mouth.
“Don’t you dare fucking cry. This is your fault, Mandy—you’re the reason I don’t have a date. You fucked up. Now put on that fucking dress.”
Gulping back tears, I duck out from under his arm and grab the dress, fresh from the dry cleaner, that’s hanging from one of the bookcases in the living room.
In the powder room, I struggle out of my clothes and dump them in a pile on the vanity counter. Then I take the dress out of the garment bag. It’s one of those stretchy ones that’s supposed to hug your body. With its low-cut front and back and the slit up the side of the skirt, shapeware is out of the question, if I even had any I could fit into .
“Mandy!” Salinger’s fist pounds on the door.
“I’m changing.” The words are a croak. “Just give me a minute.”
Dabbing at my stress sweat with one of the Egyptian-cotton hand towels, I say a little prayer. What if the dress doesn’t fit me? Sucking in my stomach, I carefully shimmy the dress up. It gets stuck on my hips.
No, no, no, no.
“Mandy.” The deep voice has a dangerous, threatening edge.
“I said, just a minute. It takes women a long time to get ready.”
“You have eight minutes,” he bellows through the door.
Trying the other way, I lift my arms up and let the dress slip over my head.
My arms fit through. I stuff my boobs in the little scraps of fabric on either side of the deep V-neck then think skinny thoughts and manhandle the dress over my hips. The luxurious fabric skims my bare legs, which I thankfully shaved the day before after suffering through numerous snide comments from my sister.
“Okay,” I say to my slightly sweaty reflection in the mirror. “We did it. This is fine.”
I send a prayer to the gods that my tatas stay in the low-cut top, pat my shiny face with the towel, then swipe on mascara and lip gloss. I try my best to pin my frizzy hair in a messy updo. If I’d known my sister was going to flake out on me, I would have gotten a blowout or at least washed my hair.
Still, I don’t look too terrible, at least compared to my usual standards.
The shoes are another story .
I live in flat shoes—Crocs, if I can get away with them. Anything with room for my toes and a thick, padded sole. These shoes? Four-inch stilettoes with little crystal-studded straps that dig into my skin? My feet begin to ache as soon as I put them on.
“At least they fit,” I remind myself. “Be grateful you and Lauren wear the same shoe size.”
Because I don’t know how Salinger would react if I told him I would have to go to the fancy function in Crocs.
My boss is waiting in the hallway when I step out of the bathroom. Gray eyes sweep from the top of the messy bun, down the deep V of skin on my chest, down to the ornate design on the fabric hugging my hips, down to the sparkly shoes… then back up, settling at my hips. “Are you wearing underwear?”
“You can’t ask me that!” I sputter. “And yes, of course I am. I don’t go commando.”
His mouth turns down. “Take them off.”
“I’m not taking off my underwear.”
“I can see the line of them through the fabric.” His teeth flash.
“It’s not that noticeable,” I protest, peering down.
It actually is that noticeable. Maybe if I was wearing something other than granny panties, I might have been able to keep them on, but now? I shuffle back into the bathroom, trying not to trip over the hem of my dress, and slide the underwear off.
I can’t just leave them out—that seems a little too intimate—but I don’t want them mixed in with my other clothes, because that’s gross.
“Mandy,” Salinger barks .
I quickly stuff the pale-pink cotton behind the toilet then step back into the hallway.
When I stand for inspection in front of Salinger again, his cold gaze slowly flicking over me, cataloging me, criticizing me, I feel completely naked. I have never gone out in public without a bra and definitely not underwear. Ever.
“My mother would have a heart attack if she saw me,” I say, desperately trying to cut the tension. Clasping my hands behind me, I try to will myself to stop shaking.
Salinger approaches me, footfalls methodical as he slowly circles me. He picks a piece of dog hair off the dress sleeve. “At least you don’t look cheap.”
“This is a very expensive dress.” My voice is still trembling.
He steps in front of me, pulls a flat gray box out of his jacket. “Jewelry. Put it on. It’s expensive. Don’t lose it.”
Hands still shaking, I try to put on the dangling earrings, managing to stab both my finger and my ear.
“For fuck’s sake.” Roughly, his larger hand grabs mine, twisting the earring out of it.
There’s a slight breeze on my neck, then his fingers brush my cheek. He tucks one of my tangled curls behind my ear then deftly fastens one earring. Still behind me, he moves to the other ear.
My heart is thump-tha-thumping in my chest. I’m sure he can hear it. I’m going to faint, and it’s not going to be like in those Victorian romance novels I used to sneak from my grandmother’s bookcase. There will be puke.
His warm fingers barely brush the back of my neck as cool metal is laid on my collarbones. He clasps the necklace then adjusts it slightly. It’s heavy and smooth between the V of the dress .
The dazzling diamonds reflect in his eyes as he regards me. There’s something dangerous coiled behind those gray eyes as they assess the jewelry draped on me.
His breath hisses out. “I can’t believe…” He shakes his head. “Those diamonds are wasted on you.”
I wish he had just hit me. It’s just like I always feared—that I am not actually pretty, that putting on a nice dress, fancy shoes, and expensive jewelry has turned out just like Martha the mean girl from high school always said—about as worthless as dressing up a hippo.
Salinger doesn’t think I’m attractive at all. And he’s right.
No. He is not right. I glance at my reflection in the window. I look pretty dang good. I don’t need a man to give me self-worth. I straighten up, stick my chest out like Gran always said. “So what’s next, boss? Do I get a fur coat?”
That just earns me more bared teeth from Salinger. His arm is stiff. The cuff link on his wrist glints as he checks the time.
“We’re late. Get your worthless dog, and let’s go.” He turns on his heel.
I rush after him. The heel of my shoe catches on the hem of the dress. Salinger grabs my arm as I stumble.
“Watch it.” The words carry a dangerous promise. “Next time you trip, I’m just letting you fall. Now move.”
Pepper is sprawled out on her back next to the unlit fireplace.
“Pepper.” I snap my fingers.
She ignores me.
“Pepper, I know you’re not asleep—you’re not snoring. Let’s go.” Kneeling down, I wrap my arms around her, whispering, “Pepper.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath behind me .
Ignoring Salinger, I whisper, “Please? I know you’re the worst emotional-support dog ever, but I need a win here, okay?”
The dog rouses, rolling over and yawning.
“Okay, see? She’s ready to go. She’s had her power nap,” I say with forced cheerfulness as I fluff out her fur.
Looking over my shoulder, I catch his gaze. I’ve never seen my boss so enraged. His eyes are almost black, he’s so mad.
Scooping up the dog in my arms, I follow him into the private elevator, needing the corgi as a furry shield to protect me from the anger radiating from Salinger.
A black limo is waiting for us outside the lobby of his luxury high-rise. The driver opens the door.
Everything in me screams to run away.
Instead, I climb into the car.
Salinger sits next to me.
The doors slam. I sit inside, feeling like I’m riding to my own execution.