9. Brock Jones
Chapter nine
Brock Jones
I scrub my hands over my bleary eyes before reaching for my coffee. My hand knocks into the half-full paper cup, tipping it over. I wince and jump up to find something to clean it with. Dark brown liquid seeps into the last contract I was reviewing. All of the notes I made start to blur.
“Great.”
I stalk out of my office to hunt for paper towels. The bathrooms here only have hand dryers, but maybe there’s a utility closet with some inside.
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving when I just got here.” Ariel’s voice carries across the floor.
She struts down the line of empty cubicles. My eyes trail from her heels clicking on the dark wood floors up her legs to the fitted tweed dress that hugs her curves. If you transported her to a runway in New York, she’d fit right in, even with the reusable tote bag slung over her shoulder.
“Isn’t that your whole thing?” I raise a brow. “To get me to stop working?”
“I’m not so na?ve to think you leaving this building means you stop working,” she says with a wry smile. Her eyes rove over me. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
I let out a short laugh. “Way to make a guy feel good.” I gesture to her bag. “Happen to have paper towels in there?”
Her brows scrunch together. “No, what do you need those for?”
“Spilled my coffee.”
“It’s eight at night.”
“Not sure how that’s relevant.”
I turn and head toward a closet that I’m hoping has something of use inside. I rent this whole floor for privacy, but don’t use most of it, so I have no idea what could be up here.
“Why are you drinking coffee so late at night?” Her voice follows after me.
“It keeps my eyes open.” Mostly . Actually, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve drank so much that it has the reverse effect.
I open the closet door and find a vacuum that looks like it should be in a museum somewhere with how ancient it is, a bucket with questionable liquid at the bottom, and a stack of rags. That’ll do. I grab one of the stained cloths.
“Caffeine isn’t good for anxiety.”
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have anxiety,” I say as I walk back to my office. “Why are you here, Duke?”
She follows me to my desk and sets her bag down in the chair across from mine. I begin to mop up the coffee. Thankfully, it only ruined the one contract and didn’t touch any of my electronics.
“I brought you a few things to help with the anxiety you don’t have,” she says flatly.
My lips twitch. “Should have called first. I would have saved you the trip.”
I glance up in time to see her eyes roll.
“I didn’t have to call to know you’re stubborn and in denial .”
I drop the wet rag in the trash can next to my desk. My fingers stick together, making me curl my lip in disgust.
“I’m going to wash my hands. Feel free to take your attitude elsewhere while I’m gone.”
“Aw, but then you’d miss me,” she says as I walk away.
“Very presumptuous theory. Why don’t we test it out?” I call over my shoulder. Her laughter follows me. I can’t help but smile at the sound.
After I wash the coffee off my hands, I return to find Ariel adjusting things on the shelves to the right of my desk.
“Is it your mission in life to disturb mine?” I round my desk and sink into my chair. It’s hopeless to try and be productive while she’s here, but I can at least be comfortable while waiting for her to leave.
“I’m keeping you alive.”
There’s a short beeping noise before she steps back. Soft white mist flows out of a machine on the shelf next to a framed photo of me and Shaw after we won our college hockey championship.
“I’m not dying.” I gesture to the machine. “Unless of course you’re trying to kill me by poisoning the air in my office.”
“It’s not poison, it’s lavender oil.” She walks back to the desk, her hips swaying with each step. “Also, if I was trying to kill you, I wouldn’t poison the air. Then I’d be at risk. I’d poison your food.” She smiles sweetly.
I chuckle. “Now I don’t know if I should accept food from you anymore.”
“That’s too bad, because I brought cookies.” She holds up a Ziplock bag filled with chocolate chip cookies. There are smudges from melted chocolate chips on the plastic. My mouth starts to water.
“If I die, I’ll die happy.”
She laughs and sets the bag down on my desk. I reach inside for a cookie. They’re warm still, and the one I grab breaks in half because it’s so soft.
“Did you make these?” I ask before taking a bite. It’s buttery and sweet, with a hint of salt. I hum in appreciation.
She sits down across from me, a smile on her lips.
“I made them for an open house I just came from. Nothing like the smell of freshly baked cookies to sell a home.”
“I’d buy a house based on this cookie alone,” I say after eating the rest in one bite. My head tips in the direction of what I now know is an oil diffuser. “Why the lavender?”
“It’s good for stress ,” she says in a pointed tone as she reaches for a cookie. “Which you have a lot of.”
I can’t argue with her there. As much as I’d like to.
“It’s a part of the job.” I shrug and grab another cookie.
“I think that you have more control over that part than you think,” she counters.
“You know what increases stress?” I ask. She raises a brow. “Arguing.”
Her brown hair falls into her eyes as she shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask without thinking.
Her eyes pierce mine. “Because your sister is my best friend and she’s worried about you. I’m hoping that if I come around enough, maybe one day you’ll get it through your head that there are people who care about you. Who want you healthy and thriving.”
I shift in my seat. I drop my gaze.
“We have different definitions of healthy and thriving,” I say.
She laughs. “We do. The biggest difference being mine is right and yours is wrong.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well your definition landed you in the hospital with a prescription, so mine is looking pretty good comparatively.”
I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
She watches me for a quiet moment. I busy myself with checking my email inbox. I click around, but don’t accomplish anything. Lavender has begun to scent the air. It doesn’t relax me though, rather, it reminds me of Ariel’s purpose here.
“You don’t have to talk to me about it, but you should talk to somebody .” I stiffen at her implication. “You’re working yourself into the ground. You shouldn’t be in your office this late at night drinking coffee to keep your eyes open.”
“You worked late too,” I try to defend myself. “It’s not a bad thing to push a little while building a business.”
Her gaze is weighted with concern.
I sigh. “I don’t do this every night. And even if I did, I’m going home after I leave here. I don’t sleep in my office or work into the morning hours. If for some reason I did do that, I would take the next day off. I’m willing to bet you haven’t taken a day off in a long time, if ever.”
I haven’t. I’ve taken hours off–sort of–but not a full day. There’s too much to be done. I’d get behind and never catch up.
“I get what you’re saying, but I’m fine. This is only a season.”
She nods. “I know you think that. All I’m doing is trying to get you to see a different side.”
If only she could see my side. Then maybe I’d have someone in my life who understood. But no one seems to get it except other agents.
“I should get back to work,” I say. “Thank you for the cookies and the lavender stuff.”
She sighs and stands. “You’re welcome. Try to leave before midnight, okay?”
I nod and keep my eyes on my monitor. She waits for a moment before leaving. The click of her heels echoes with her departure.
A sinking feeling develops deep within my core.
As though I sped down a hill too fast while driving.
The words on my screen start to blur. I spin to face the windows behind me.
The city is spread out. Intimidatingly vast. Red taillights beam in the night.
Cop cars barrel down the streets. Skyscrapers hundreds of floors tall loom.
Couples meet for drinks. Families for dinner. And then there’s me. Alone .