9. Thorn
Chapter nine
Thorn
“N o, Warren. You have nothing to worry about. There was a problem, but not everything goes according to plan. It’s what you do with the challenges that proves who you are.”
For the past hour, I’ve been on the phone with the CEO of the company that was supposed to be on the other end of the merger with us. Right now, it’s looking more and more doubtful that it’s going to happen. Warren Smith isn’t impressed with the whole Peach Lips getting catnapped incident, and he doesn’t like the Pissgate scandal. Not that he called it that. He’s only talking to me right now—office Thorn, aka Mr. Blackhert (and yes, it really is code for Black Hart)—because he doesn’t know that the one who caused said scandals was also me.
You’d be surprised at how effective a disguise, NDAs, discreet employees, and a few amazing internet wizards are. Otherwise, I’d never be able to do what I love, which is working in the field.
I ram my fingers through my hair, readying a speech for Warren, but I cut myself off before even starting. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I wanted this merger more than I’ve wanted anything. I worked my tush off for it.
I should have a sinking feeling in my stomach at Warren’s reluctance, some anger over his resistance, and some kind of something over him pointing out my flaws. I know I have them, but before all this happened, I liked to pretend I didn’t, along with feelings. It made working this job so much easier. In security, you’re there to put yourself between the threats in the world and your client. It’s far easier to do that if you look like a slab of meat and a pillar of stone had a baby. They trust you more if you don’t get emotional about anything. Ever.
For some reason that I cannot fathom, my mind wanders. I can hear Warren backing out of this, and I just can’t give a proper fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I walk away from the windows in my office. Over the years, I’ve become immune to the downtown scenery, but this afternoon, I look at it with fresh eyes. I may or may not have been contemplating what Ephemeral would think if she was standing here looking out. And how she’d see it.
Warren goes on, expounding on more than my recent failures. He’s pulling reasons out of his ass to suit his own purposes now, but I can’t get my attention wrapped around that enough to care the way I normally would. Usually, if anyone tried that, they’d get a piece of my mind in a not-so-nice manner.
I sit down at my desk, put Warren on speaker while I pretend to listen, interjecting grunts here and there, and then flick through my security feeds.
What the hell?
Half of the marketing department is empty. I can see the desks where there should be bodies. I glance at my phone, thinking I’ve screwed up and it’s earlier than I thought or lunchtime, but no. It’s two in the afternoon. I pull up the company calendar, but there’s no meeting scheduled for the marketing department or any other department right now.
I keep going through all the channels until I hit the lobby.
I stop dead.
Warren is still going off, even though, by this point, I’ve tuned him out entirely.
I’m fixated on the camera feed.
The world’s most serious man—I’m talking this guy probably hasn’t cracked a smile in his whole life, and his name is Buttzinksy, I kid you not—is dancing around the expansive place like a four-year-old playing dress up, pretending to be a fairy princess. He’s seventy-two this year and has told us in no uncertain terms that he never plans to retire. The guy is basically in charge of the worst cases we take on—the uber-serious ones where a slip-up means so much more than a merger not happening. Ones that we do not, under any circumstances, fuck-up.
Our head of marketing, Mary Selene, a badass in her late forties with a shaved head and one of the most creative people you’ll ever meet, has led half her department down into the lobby. They’re all clustered around a single figure with galaxy hair and a dress to match. I recognize that dress because I saw it on the feed from the house this morning. It has rocket ships, cats, planets, moons, and stars all over it, and she’s paired it with the brightest neon pink leggings and thick, chunky black boots with white stars.
Ephemeral is here. She has Peach Lips in that bubble backpack, or at least she did, because I can see it on the ground next to her feet.
I scan the crowd, and the receptionist, forty-nine-year-old Wham Bam (her real name is Amy Wilder)—nicknamed such because she used to do MMA fighting and could kick any amount of ass—is holding Peach Lips and dancing with her in her arms.
Dancing.
Everyone is happy. Smiling. The joy in the room is infectious, even on the camera.
I spot Jade on the edges, standing by June. They’re both in marketing. Jade is the best graphic artist I’ve ever seen, and June technically does more of the communications side of things, but she’s a wizard. They’re both generally quite stoic if I had to pick a word to describe them. More on the reserved and shy side. Not everyone who works here used to be a badass out there in the field. We’re not all ex-soldiers. A large majority of the men and women I have out there in the field and on the ground were trained by our team with zero prior security experience. It’s a misconception that security and bodyguards are like machines.
Well, Jade and June aren’t reserved right now. They rush forward and start cooing over Peach Lips like they’ve never seen anything more fabulous in their lives.
Another person breaks out of the crowd. John Sanders provides our lobby security. He’s normally like an unmoving pillar, his eyes taking in everything, but even from all the way back here, I can trace his line of sight, which is honing straight onto Ephemeral. And why wouldn’t people want to look at her? She’s captivating. Stunning. Gorgeous. And that’s when she’s not smiling, half shy and half proud like she is now.
The sensation that hits me square in the chest isn’t ugly. It’s not even close to jealousy. I wouldn’t say the desire to bend John into a pretzel shape that rearranges all his limbs is ugly. Chiropractors get paid to do almost the same thing, and it’s a legit profession.
Yeah.
Fuckity fuck this.
I’m not going to stand here and wait for the entire building to empty out. For one, that would cause a disruption that could have long-lasting repercussions. And two, Peach Lips would be overwhelmed, and if she got scared, then Ephemeral would be stressed.
I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
I hurtle out of my office and head straight for the elevator. It takes its sweet arse time to get up to this floor, but eventually, I’m on my way down.
Exiting into the hallway and making my way to the front of the lobby, I can see that the crowd has already doubled in size. Wham Bam is still holding Peach Lips and dancing away with gentle swaying motions, the cat tucked safely against her shoulder.
No matter who is down here, how little they usually smile or how they’d shit all over Christmas and every holiday if given a chance, and what walk of life they found themselves treading or what brought them here, right now, right in front of my eyes, every single person is united in shining eyes and ooh and ahh sighs.
For Peach Lips.
The sweetest dumpling of a potato cat.
I didn’t get it before this moment. I failed to understand what Ephemeral meant when she said Peach Lips was magic. Well, she is a. Pure. Magical. Wonder.
As I get closer to the fray, I hear John asking Ephemeral about her home. “It’s crazy that you live on a bus. What’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened? Or worst? Or both.”
She laughs lightly, a sparkly sound like windchimes on a not-so-breezy day. I wish I were the cause of it and not John Soon To Be Pretzeled Beyond Recognition Sanders.
“Ugh, one time, my generator failed. I was gone for the whole day. Twelve hours at a show from start to finish. When I got back, everything inside had spoiled. It was just a small fridge, but you can’t imagine the stench. Plus, it was nearly impossible to clean it on the bus. I took Peach Lips outside in her carrier and let her sit in the shade while I attacked it with all the cleaning products I had, caustic and natural alike. In the end, it took days to air out. The whole place smelled like rotting trash until I rented one of those ozone machines while we stayed in a hotel.”
John laughs. Wildly. Ha fucking ha. More than ever, I’d like to relocate him to Anus Anusville. And nope, that’s not me getting jealous about laughter.
“Sounds worse than a crime scene.”
Ephemeral pales. “Oh. I…wouldn’t know anything about that. Goodness.”
John knows nothing about it either, and that’s a darned fact.
As the crowd spots me, they part and go silent. They lose some of their smiles and start getting that guilty oh shit, we’re supposed to be working look.
Ephemeral could lay me out to dry here, but inexplicably, she doesn’t. She treats me with a smile so rare that I feel like I’ve just won the smile lottery. I’m solely focused on her bright green eyes, her full lips, the blush that pinks her cheeks so very delicately, her bright and epic cat dress, and her funky platform boots.
She claps. I look around, wondering what on earth she’s doing and who she’s applauding, but then her smile grows. Her hands beat harder together. Furiously. She means business.
Her hand waves, indicating the length of me, which includes the fake beard, mustache, and glasses. You’d think it would be more effective to wear it in the field, or at least more token, but try chasing and tackling someone down with fake facial hair and glasses. It’s not the most convenient thing in the world.
“Your idea is a huge success already,” she croons. I’m stunned, but I’m far too used to being stoic to show it. The rest of the crowd in the lobby is stunned, too, but not all of them hide it well. A few people openly gape at me. “You wanted to have Peach Lips meet everyone she was working with and even all those who wouldn’t be directly rebranding us in order for the best possible outcome.”
That doesn’t sound remotely like something I’d say.
And half the room agrees, while the other half is undecided.
Wham Bam shrugs and starts swaying with the cat again. A few of the hard looks on the assembled faces melt away.
“He even offered me his house to stay while I’m here, knowing that a hotel would be impossible to set up for any length of stay. He got cat posts, litter boxes, all the food Peach Lips loves, and gave us the space all to ourselves.”
What the double, triple fuck is Ephemeral playing at?
Because now, jaws are dropping. She’s ruining my reputation. Not that I’ve done anything to build it. When you’re the boss, and you’re relatively quiet and private, plus a good dose of hardly ever here equals so much mystery, AND you’ve done all you can do to erase most of your past from every which direction, people just make up what they will to fill in the blanks.
The only thing people do know about me for sure is that my work ethic trends toward perfection, so every client goes away utterly satisfied. They know I’m married to this place. I also very rarely respond to anything in any way other than grunts. Happy grunts, not-so-happy grunts, satisfied or unsatisfied grunts.
I suppose, overall, I’m intimidating and unfriendly.
I’d like to snap something about scraping jaws off the floor and making sure nothing imploded in the past ten minutes, but I refrain. Barely.
Probably only because Ephemeral smiles directly at me, and I’m so blinded by the light of it that I forget all about being an asshole.
Wait . What’s happening right now?
Is she saying all this stuff to disarm me again? Because whatever she did yesterday worked. Not only did I forget all about tearing up new assholes when it came to block parties, but I went…soft. Over a sandwich. It might have been the best sandwich I’ve ever had in my life, but still. I don’t know what happened. I thought about it for half the night last night while I was sleeping on the Murphy bed in my office.
Have we shifted from trying to argue each other out of breath to grounding the halt gears on the life-ruining? Are we not trying to out-class each other? Is that why Ephemeral is being so nice and giving me credit I don’t deserve?
Intentional or not, she’s thrown down a sort of challenge, and it’s not in my nature to let it go.
I clear my throat. “I was going to give the announcement later today that in honor of the special circumstances, the company is going to be making a yearly donation of a hundred thousand dollars to animal charities. Every. Year.”
Ephemeral must not be well acquainted with the theory that nothing is free. Kindness can, and often does, cost quite a lot. Either that, or she knows it well, and that’s why her eyes are huge and tearing up. The way she’s looking at me now, like I just set the whole world to rights, rocks me.
It hits me in ways I didn’t expect.
You get to a point in your life where your past dictates your future to a degree that you know you’re going to end up alone. I might work in close proximity to other people, but I knew I’d never have a special connection with anyone. I didn’t want it, and I knew they wouldn’t want me the way I was. The thought of buying someone’s “love” still grosses the hell out of me. Hard pass. No thanks. Whatever beasts are inside me that I still haven’t tamed—and I’ve done a number on most of them—roll and settle and start to purr like I’m Peach Lips, waiting for Ephemeral’s sweet and kind touch.
She’s still clapping straight through her tear-filled eyes. Her smile is so huge now that she looks like she has two separate faces—a top and a bottom—but not in a scary way.
I feel the whole room swivel to stare at me. The attention is unnerving, and the silence is even worse right before they all break out into applause as well.
And then…
The unthinkable.
Hugs.
People are hugging me.
All I can do is stand there and take it. And worry about my fake facial hair ripping off. Even when John comes up to grab my hand and starts pumping it vigorously up and down, I have no further thoughts about rearranging his arms and legs.
Wham Bam hands Peach Lips back to Ephemeral, and then the whole marketing team tries to usher her away, already excited to further discuss her rebranding, which she is ostensibly here for.
Because of me, although that’s obviously not true.
Ephemeral doesn’t turn around and look back at me, although she could. The crowd isn’t that thick. That determined, forward-facing stride is like getting the last word in an argument. All I can do is stand here awkwardly, at a loss, knowing full well that I’m out of control. I should be giving more fucks about all this—the merger which is falling through, the hundred grand I just promised per year, the woman who has invaded my house and now my workplace and made everyone fall in love with her and her potato cat, and my reputation, both personal and professional—but I’m just here.
Frozen.
Uncertain, for the first time in a very long time, about what my next move is.