Chapter 6
SIX
DARCY
I mmediately after shaking Ridge’s hand and leaving the interview, I hopped into my car, drove to the house I rent with Lyric, and squealed as I flopped onto my bed. Then I promptly grabbed my laptop, checked the math for a fifth time, and sent Ridge an email confirming I would start and told him how much I need.
I could have told him how much I need while I was sitting there. I knew the exact amount because I’ve been combing over it to make sure every dollar and cent is accounted for. He wanted me to go home before I even accepted the position, but I knew I wanted it the moment he said he could give me what I need.
And I don’t know, Ridge doesn’t look rich or anything. But he seemed very confident he could match what I need without even knowing what it is. So maybe he has more money than I assumed. How much do tattoo artists make, anyway? It’s not really something I’ve thought about, and I don’t know anyone I could ask. Either way, he seems confident, and I’m not looking this gift horse in the mouth.
“Hey, I’m home!” Lyric calls out at the same time I hear the front door open and shut.
I stroll out of my room with a lightness I haven’t had all week. There’s a little less doom and gloom to carry around now, and I know she will notice.
“Hi,” I say, coming into the living room.
She’s shrugging off her cardigan and kicking off her shoes when she meets my eyes.
“I take it the interview went well?” she asks, already unclipping the snaps on her bra and tugging it out of her arm hole. She breathes an audible sigh, and I can’t help but giggle at how instantly wonderful it feels to not be squashed inside those things.
“It did and I start tomorrow!”
“Wow, that’s great!” she says, clapping her hands together. “Is it going to be enough, or are you going to have to work more than one job?”
“It’s going to be enough,” I say. And because I think it’s wild, I add, “He told me to go home and email him how much I need and he would make sure that’s what I get.”
“Whoa,” she says.
Lyric’s eyes grow wide like I imagine mine did when I was sitting in front of Ridge.
“I know, right?”
“Are they rich or something?”
“It’s just the dad, Ridge, and his daughter, Lou. Which is short for Louise. Her mom died giving birth.”
“Damn,” she says. “How sad.”
“It is sad, but Ridge didn’t say much about it. I don’t know the whole story.”
We migrate toward the kitchen, where Lyric takes out one of the meal prep containers we made over the weekend. Between the two of us, we prepare almost everything we eat in advance. Our schedules don’t line up at all, especially when I’m in school.
“Wait a second,” she says, her eyes narrowing at me. “So what’s this Ridge fellow look like?”
Oh dear. I was afraid this might happen. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks and I haven’t even started to describe him.
“Well, he’s much older obviously. I’m not sure exactly, but I would think he’s well into his thirties.”
When I don’t go on, she prompts me for more.
“And?” She pulls a fork from the drawer.
“And… he’s… tall.”
“Okay, and?” Lyric’s eyes are practically slits at this point, like she’s waiting for me to confirm some truth she already knows.
“I mean, he’s attractive,” I say, my voice low. I try to convey as much nonchalance with tone and body language as I can, giving an extra-dramatic shrug.
“Aha!”
“What?” I yelp.
“He’s hot, isn’t he? I can see it in your face.”
A deranged snort-laugh escapes me. “No, he’s… he’s….”
“He is!” she shouts, slamming the palm of her hand against the counter. “You always get weird when you’re talking about hot guys.”
“Look,” I say, huffing. “Fine, okay? He’s hot. He’s tall, with dark hair and darker eyes, and he’s got tattoos all over his neck and arms. And his dad bod looks like it was sculpted by angels. And he’s got just the fewest amount of gray hairs in his beard. And I thought about using him as a coloring book or letting him use me as a sex slave or maybe both if he’s down?—”
“Slow down,” Lyric says, her voice gentle and playful. A little giggle escapes her as I place my hand across my chest and take a deep breath.
“Are you laughing at my pain?”
“Look, after that asshat stole precious years from you and still won’t fully leave you alone, I want you to find someone to be this affected by. I want you to find someone who makes you hot and bothered, and the idea of touching them gives you heart palpitations.” Lyric pauses, running her fingers through the tangles at the ends of her hair.
“But?”
“But,” she says, “I think we both know that it can’t be this guy. It can’t be your boss. He’s a much-needed lifeline right now to your end goal, which is finishing school. You can’t afford for this arrangement to go sour. And nothing will make it doomed faster than complicating it with sex.”
Sometimes Lyric is my voice of reason. Sure, she’s a little weird and her purse is shaped like a bat and her hair is often a bright shade of pink and then green and then blue and then pink again. And sure, she describes her job as “playing dress-up with dead people all day,” but she’s not afraid to tell me the bitter-to-the-taste cold hard truth I need to hear.
And in this situation, going down any kind of rabbit hole that involves lusting for my boss is a terrible fucking idea.
“You’re right,” I say with a sigh. “From now on, he’s a blob.”
“A blob?”
“Yes. A genderless, sex-organ-less, faceless blob that’s going to help me graduate.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says before taking a bite of noodles from the container. “Now, go do that thing you do with that weird-looking sex toy you have, and get all those lustful thoughts about him exorcised from your body. Then have a nice shower and do your laundry and get ready for your first workday.”
Sometimes Lyric mothers me, too. I don’t mind it, though. It would have been nice to have an actual mom who did that for me, but my grandmother did the best she could. It’s not her fault that her daughter didn’t do a good job.
“It’s not a weird shape,” I say defensively. “It’s just a lemon.”
“I think most would agree that in the context of a sex toy, a lemon is a weird fucking shape.” She laughs.
She might be right. Maybe a lemon doesn’t make any sense. But I don’t give a shit about that because it’s the best thing I’ve ever bought myself and gets me from zero to screaming for God in like forty-three seconds. Maybe a full minute if I intentionally drag it out.
I walk back toward my room, already thinking about her Ridge ban, when Lyric calls out.
“What does he do, anyway? Like what’s his job?”
“He’s a tattoo artist,” I call back.
“Shit,” she says. “Maybe go two rounds with the lemon.”
I don’t tell her that some nagging emotion deep down is telling me I’m going to need to lemon myself on the daily to keep these lust demons at bay. She doesn’t need to know everything , after all.
Fuck, this is going to be a really long summer. I should probably get a backup lemon.