Chapter 3 #2
Marisa flashes a grin. “Yes,” she says simply. “It was my last shift for the week, and I desperately need a drink—or five—to relieve the tension.”
Dillon pipes up from behind us. “Marisa’s basically a robot. She never knows when to quit.”
“I know when to quit,” she argues. “It’ll be about ten seconds after I drink you all under the table.”
“Those are fighting words.” Dillon laughs as we walk further into the bar, the place packed with people and low pop music playing over the speakers. We’re walking alongside the bar, the wall to our left lined with red velvet U-shaped booths, when Dillon says, “Look, over there!”
I follow his pointing finger to see Jack standing in the middle of the booth in a back corner, waving us over.
Marisa slides into the booth first, and then Dillon.
It means the only place for me to sit is beside him, but there’s not quite enough space, leaving me awkwardly perched on the edge.
Bliss is sitting on Marisa’s other side, with Jack in the middle.
Corey and Amber—the only other couple in the group—sit across from me and Dillon on the other end.
Jack leans forward with a dopey expression, telling me he’s definitely pre-gamed. “You two are late.” He waggles his eyebrows. “What kept you?”
Dillon slouches, his thigh pressing against mine and his arm around my shoulders, tugging me into his side. I lean into him, trying to take some of the pressure off of having to balance on my seat.
“You know what they say.” He smirks. “Only the cool people are fashionably late. How early did you show up?”
Jack shrugs, his grin crooked. “Early enough to already have had two rounds.”
Bliss gives a sharp smile, looking every inch the lawyer that she is. “We haven’t seen you around lately, Dillon.” Her eyes flit between us, her tone just on the wrong side of cool.
“I’m sure Jack’s told you how busy we are at work right now,” Dillon tells her diplomatically, but her smile doesn’t soften.
“You shouldn’t work too hard.” There’s a slight undercurrent to her tone. “Or you start forgetting what truly matters.” She flicks up a perfectly-shaped brow.
Marisa leans forward, asking me, “And how have you been, Charlie? It’s been even longer since we’ve seen you!”
Before I can answer, a server appears next to us, pad in her hand, ready to take our drink orders.
Once she’s gone again, I turn to Marisa.
“I’ve been busy too. Work has really picked up, which is why I couldn’t make the last couple of get-togethers.
” That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, even when Bliss snorts indelicately into her glass.
The conversation flows easily from there, everyone throwing in stories about their jobs and lives, but I still struggle to find where I fit in with this group—friends who have known each other since college.
Even after nearly two years with Dillon, it still feels like I’m an interloper. It’s not something I’ve ever mentioned to him, not wanting him to think I don’t like his friends…And yet, there’s this feeling—this instinct—that they don’t exactly approve of me.
I’m probably overthinking it all, my insecurities pushing me to see something that’s not actually there.
I’m not a bubbly or social person on the best of days, but these situations leave me feeling untethered.
I can sit here, listening to the conversation, deliberating over what I might add, but by the time I finally settle on something, they’ve already moved on to a new subject.
And then the cycle starts all over again.
One on one? I’m a goddamn delight…but with this group of particular people? I’m walking along a cliff edge, each of them waiting for me to make one wrong move so they can kick me to the curb.
I’m feeling the buzz of three drinks when the conversation turns to Jack’s promotion and his new role as a senior associate.
I tune in just as he crows, “Rachel didn’t even know how to play the game.
There was no way they would ever have given her the job over me.
” His tone is amused, arrogant. He turns to Bliss with a smirk. “She’s not like you. That’s for sure.”
I wrinkle my nose, looking away to hide how uncomfortable the way he’s talking makes me.
Dillon distracts me when his hand settles high on my leg, squeezing my thigh through the fabric of my dress.
I lean against him, stroking my fingers over the top of his hand, but his focus is on the conversation.
Bliss lets out a throaty laugh. “Not many women have the balls to play the long game.” Her eyes glitter with something I can’t read, and then she lowers her lashes, and it’s gone.
“It’s all a dick-measuring contest,” Dillon agrees, and I look at him, surprised. He doesn’t notice, eyes glazed as he lifts his glass to his mouth. When he’s finished swallowing, he gives a crooked smile. “And Rachel just doesn’t have the inches.”
Jack and Corey both crack up, even as Jack points his glass in Dillon’s direction. “Exactly, man! And then she threw these pitiful looks at me, like it’s somehow my fault she got passed over.”
Marisa frowns, looking as uncomfortable as I feel. “What did she do wrong, exactly?”
Bliss scoffs. “Don’t start, Marisa.”
“No,” she protests, throwing an annoyed look at her friend. “I’m not starting. I’m genuinely curious. What makes this woman so undeserving? I’m assuming she worked at the company just as long as you—”
“Two years longer, actually.” Jack smiles smugly.
“—and she had to have been on the same level, skill-wise,” Marisa continues, her stare darkening. But she’s as threatening as a puppy, so it’s not exactly an effective look. Jack proves that when he just grins at her, completely unfazed by her attempt to call him out on his bullshit.
“The girl,” he says slyly, “isn’t a fighter.
She might work hard”—his tone implies he thinks otherwise—“but she didn’t want the job bad enough.
She basically handed it over to me, along with several of her clients.
Fact is, I bring in more revenue than her and, balls to the wall, she doesn’t have what it takes.
” His eyes flash with cunning, and I work hard to keep my expression neutral, unwilling to betray the doubts I feel about what he’s saying.
Honestly, I feel sorry for her, having to work with a jackass like him.
Ha. Jack-ass. I hide my smile behind my drink as I take another sip.
Across from me, Corey is gulping his drink down with ease, practically downing the whole thing in one swallow. He thumps the glass down on the table, his voice overly loud as he declares, “She probably should’ve sucked the CEO off.” He snickers meanly. “You’d have been out of the job then.”
I glance at Dillon, his eyes bouncing between his friends as they talk. His fingers squeeze my leg again, but it’s more of a reflex than anything else, and it doesn’t comfort me at all.
“No way she’d be able to pull that off,” Jack says. “She’s a mousey, wee thing. Her pussy’s probably locked up tighter than a nun’s.” He chortles loudly, and this time, everyone else laughs as well, except me and Marisa.
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters.
Bliss smirks, cooing, “What’s the matter, Rissy?”
“Fuck off, Bliss.” Her acerbic tone only makes Bliss laugh, meowing at her friend like an angry cat, her hand curled in the imitation of a claw.
“Anyway,” Jack continues brashly. “Frederick Hawthorne would never be seen with the likes of her. Last week, he was on page six with Georgiana DuChett!”
Amber leans forward. “No fucking way! She’s, like, a superstar!”
“Wouldn’t go that far,” Bliss disagrees. “B-List at most.”
“Come off it,” Amber argues. “She’s rich as shit, gorgeous, and an amazing actress. You’re just jealous that Hawthorne didn’t give you the time of day at Jack and Dillon’s work Christmas party.”
Bliss sniffs, not deigning to respond.
I take the moment of silence to ask Jack, “The woman at your job…Rachel? They were seriously considering her, right? For the promotion.” Several pairs of eyes turn my way, and my shoulders curl inward, especially when Bliss’s stare trails over my hair to my face and down, her top lip curling in a subtle sneer before she turns away dismissively.
Jack shrugs, unconcerned. “They were just doing their due diligence. If they get known as a company that won’t promote a pair of tits, they leave themselves open to accusations of discrimination. By putting her name forward, they cleared that suspicion.”
My mouth drops open, unable to believe the absolute drivel running from this man’s mouth, especially when he lifts his glass in a toast to his promotion.
Marisa doesn’t join, her expression sour, and neither do I.
Dillon picks up his glass, and the urge to thrust an elbow into his side is almost irresistible.
“Hey,” I whisper into his ear, and he looks at me, his eyes heavy and smile crooked.
“Hey, Angel,” he croons, and I hear a giggle from further in the booth. Ignoring it, I tell him, “I’m just going to the bathroom. Be right back.”
He goes to press a kiss to my mouth. I turn my head at the last minute, and it glances off my cheek.
He frowns in bemusement, but I’m already scooting out of the booth and striding away, feeling like a thick layer of slime coats my skin.
My stomach churns uncomfortably, and I don’t know if it’s the conversation or the way the alcohol in my stomach sits heavily.