6. Brock Jones
Chapter six
Brock Jones
I’ve had three days of peace. That is, if peace can be defined as no contact with Ariel.
Our sunrise run was the last time I saw or heard from her.
It’s been suspiciously quiet since then, and with each passing day, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to get a call from Sutton saying Ariel told her everything.
With the way Ariel stormed off the other day, it wouldn’t surprise me if she gave up.
The thought adds a new kind of ache to my chest. One I can’t afford.
I already feel battered enough. Each time a bruise heals, I get hit by something else.
Whether it’s a client crisis or family worries or a mishap because I’m juggling too many balls and they’re starting to drop.
There’s always something. Like right now.
“Marie, can you book me a flight to Boston?” I ask over the intercom that connects our desk phones.
“What day would you like to fly out and when do you want to return?” She somehow manages to sound no-nonsense and yet still kind.
It’s one of the reasons I hired her. I like doing everything myself, but when it came time to hire my first employee, I knew I needed someone who could handle the heat while remaining calm and collected. Marie is the epitome of that.
“Either tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll return in two days. I’ll also need a reservation at the nicest steakhouse available for tomorrow evening.”
I had hoped that my client, Dawson Reeves, would be able to secure his spot as the face of an up-and-coming athletic sock brand based on merit alone.
But apparently, this start-up needs a meeting to determine if he’s the right fit.
Dawson can tend to stick his foot in his mouth, so I figured it would be best to be with him at the dinner that will secure both of our futures.
“On it. Also, you have a package waiting for you on my desk. I believe it’s some sort of food delivery, though I didn’t order it for you.”
I frown. Who would send food–
I hang my head. Ariel. The era of peace is officially over.
I push up from my desk and stalk out to where Marie sits. She looks at me over her turquoise glasses as I approach.
“The woman who brought it didn’t look like a typical delivery person. She was wearing a pencil skirt and expensive shoes.”
Yep, that’s Ariel. My mind flashes to the first night she brought food to my office. Her long legs propped up on my desk. She’s not one to be underdressed.
“She’s a…friend of mine.”
Marie raises a pencil-thin brow. “Do I need to put this friend’s number on my list of high priority people?”
My instinct is to say no, that way Marie doesn’t get any ideas. Unfortunately, it would be helpful if Ariel’s calls always came through. I could give her my office number, and then she would have no reason to call Sutton because Marie could inform her of my whereabouts.
“Yes.” I sigh. “Put her on there. Her name is Ariel Cambridge.”
I grab the bag and head back to my office to avoid Marie’s curious gaze. Once back in the safety of my office–ignoring the fact that most of my walls are glass–I inspect the bag. The logo on the front is from a local burger joint that’s delicious. Stapled next to it is a purple sticky note.
Ten minutes. No work. –Duke
I open the bag to find a large burger with a label that says no pickles, and a side of onion rings.
She remembered my order? She must have, because asking Sutton would have given away our agreement.
An uncomfortable warmth fills my chest. I know we spent plenty of time together in high school, and even some in college during breaks, but it’s weird to think she paid attention enough to know what my go-to order is.
Though, I guess I remember hers too, only because she ordered extra pickles instead of none, and liked to get fries but steal one of my onion rings when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I unwrap the burger. My computer dings with a news alert about one of my clients. I sigh and put all my devices on ‘Do Not Disturb’. Ten minutes is nothing. I can take ten minutes for lunch. Most people waste even more time than that.
I take a bite of my cheeseburger.
What if that news alert was something major? They could have been injured or gotten into trouble.
Another bite.
I was supposed to call Felix back today about him participating in the Pilates event. I should probably call him soon since he’s in a time zone two hours ahead of me.
My leg starts to bounce.
I went to bed with unanswered emails. I’m already behind. Every minute counts.
I go to grab an onion ring but reach for my phone instead. The knot in my chest eases as soon as I turn my notifications back on. If someone needs me, now I’ll know. I can eat lunch and leave my phone on.
As I’m looking at the news alert, my phone buzzes.
Ariel: How long did you last?
My stomach sinks. I could lie, but I lie to everyone else enough as it is. She bought me lunch. She deserves a little honesty.
Brock: Maybe three minutes.
Bubbles pop up. I wait for her to say this isn’t worth it. I’m not worth the trouble.
Ariel: Try for four minutes tomorrow.
I stare at my phone, feeling like there’s food stuck in my throat. My eyes sting, and I blink a few times. Pathetic . I’m stronger than this. What kind of person gets emotional over a text?
Brock: I can do that.
I swallow down my emotions and pride as I type another message.
Brock: Thanks for lunch. I’ll pay you back.
Ariel: Don’t worry about it. Consider it your reward for winning the race.
I sigh. I don’t deserve her efforts. While a part of me wishes she would stay out of my life, another part knows she’s just trying to help.
I set down my phone and grab an onion ring. This is supposed to be a victory lunch, but all I can taste is bitter failure.
One thing about my friends is they don’t like to take no for an answer. Our group chat lately consists of them bullying me into playing a video game with them. Then, once we’re on said game, they spend the whole time trying to convince me to go on a blind date with their teammate’s cousin’s friend.
Jason: I can’t believe you’re turning us down AGAIN. Are we even friends anymore?
Miles: You’re not saving lives, you know. You can take a break.
Shaw: Do I need to come up there and throw your computer out your office window?
Emmett: Can you make a separate group chat to bother Brock? This is getting old.
I sigh. They just don’t understand. Their careers are set–partially because of the work I do–so they don’t have to worry as much as I do.
They’ve each got Superbowl rings, Stanley cups, Masters jackets, and World Series rings to prove they made it.
If they never do anything else, they can point to that and say they achieved the highest accomplishment possible in their profession.
I, on the other hand, have to prove it every day.
Jason: Maybe if we threaten to fire him, he’ll spend more time with us.
Anger courses through me, hotter than asphalt in July.
If they only knew how I was fighting to keep something like that from happening.
How I panic each time they bring up a project or sponsorship while on the game chat, because I’m worried I missed something or fell behind.
Talking to them becomes more difficult by the day.
When I first signed them and we all became buddies at my birthday party, I thought it was amazing.
But as time goes on, I don’t know how to keep up with both sides of who I have to be for them.
I don’t want it to feel this way, but it does.
The stakes are too high for me to mess up.
Brock: I’ll catch you on the next one, I swear. I’m flying to Boston at five in the morning tomorrow, so I need to sleep.
And answer all the emails I didn’t get to today. Marie answers some, but I need to be in the know. I can’t have my client miss an opportunity because I left it up to someone else’s judgment.
Shaw: We’re holding you to that promise.