Chapter 13
Despite my curtain barrier and the pots and pans I quietly set up around The Hole as a rudimentary alarm system, I still had a sleepless night.
Part of it was a sexy-time dream I can’t quite recall the details of, but that definitely had something to do with The Pirate Duke.
And the remainder of my restlessness was down to dread.
How nuclear will Jack’s retaliation be? On a scale of nocturnal haircut to something way worse, how bad are we talking?
And even more disturbing—like the sloughing of an old skin—my dislike for Jack is being shed with alarming ease.
Work was a long trudge through a Siberian wasteland of competing PowerPoints.
Anthony decided to present a framework that proposed a completely divergent path to the one we’ve been working toward, which necessitated a response pitch deck—the dueling banjos of the corporate world.
Exhausting. I ran it to Rochelle, who grabbed Sam Greenfield in a conference room to get his input.
“Sit tight while I talk to him.”
“I just have to run and get ready for this thing I have tonight, actually—”
“It’ll be five minutes.”
It has been forty-five minutes. I linger near the kitchen, where half-closed blinds obscure my view into the glass-walled conference room. I can only see the back of Sam’s head, but Rochelle’s tight smile is clear. She’s not thrilled. Shit.
I look at my phone for the time. Come on. Rochelle and Sam are going straight to the restaurant from work. I can’t show up to Avery’s in my black work pants and top. I need to take a cab home, and even then I’m not going to have a ton of time to get ready.
Hallelujah! Rochelle is emerging from the conference room. I rush over.
“Oh, Penny! I thought you’d have gone by now,” she says.
Only the briefest flicker of eyelashes betrays my irritation at the discovery that I could’ve left without issue after being told to sit tight. Or anger at myself that I stayed where I was told like a good little doggy.
“Sam and I were talking about other things, too, but all he said about your slides was, ‘It’ll be interesting to hear both of them present their views.’”
So President Snow wants us to Hunger Games it out. Which means a further delay in getting my raise—and thus my fucking mortgage.
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Want to ride over to the restaurant together?”
“I have to get ready for my friend’s anniversary party for his parents, actually. Going to run home real quick and then meet you at the restaurant, if that’s okay? But I can’t stay really long…”
“Okay. We’ll play it by ear. See you in a bit.”
The cab, of course, hits every red light on the way home, and I’ve practically bitten a hole through my cheek from nerves by the time it pulls up in front of my building. I race inside and rush through a shower, cursing Anthony’s name for leaving me with no time to wash my hair.
I set a new record for getting ready, and as I sweep my Ri-Ri Red lipstick over my mouth, I’m pleased to note that my lips look plump and my teeth are sans red stains. I fluff a copper-and-sunset curl. One-day-dirty hair isn’t hurting things, either.
A pair of black strappy heels, a little spaghetti-strapped red dress that makes my waist look tiny and my boobs look fantastic, and I’m ready to leave.
I grab a shawl for my cleavage, since it’s not exactly work appropriate, and step into the hall just as Jack bounds up the final step, back from the gym by his appearance.
He looks flummoxed for a moment, his eyes darting over to me.
“What?” I snap. “Thinking of England?”
He raises an eyebrow and inserts his key into his lock. I am not still smarting over his comment from a million years ago. But now he definitely thinks I am.
“Thinking of something,” I think I hear him mumble.
My cheeks are on fire. I’ve outed myself—and sounded like a shrew in the process. I notice he’s addressed most of his glitter problem, though here and there I catch the twinkle of an errant fleck on his neck or cheek or leg. Pair that with a fresh haircut and he looks… Ugh. He looks good.
“With normal people, I wouldn’t have to say this, but with you… Can you not show up to Avery’s party wearing that?” I gesture to his ripped workout shirt and shorts.
“Stop trying to change me, 5A. I need someone to want me for me.” He gives me another once-over with a strange smirk, raising the specter of my cursed Pirate Duke thoughts, and closes his door with a bang.
“Oh, Penny is just the best there is, Sam!” Rochelle says. “I mean, you give her anything at all, and she gets it done.”
“Too bad we can’t clone you,” Sam Greenfield says with a laugh from across the table.
I’m a corporate hostage. Avery’s party has started, and I’m missing cocktail hour. There is no graceful way to exit this table, and Rochelle whispered in my ear earlier that this was laying some track in getting my raise.
My lips stretch over my teeth in what I hope is a smile. “I think I saw that movie once.”
Sam Greenfield throws his head back and laughs too hard.
The tip of his nose is red. His cheeks are red.
He’s half in the bag. It’s shocking to see someone so corporate get so hammered.
There are some folks even higher up than Sam here, and a number of his peers.
I wonder if they’d make me a VP if I slurred over my appetizer, too.
“Rochelle, I really need to get going—” I whisper.
“You saw Penny’s slides,” Rochelle says. “I think we can agree that Anthony’s idea was interesting, but Penny’s is going to get us to market faster.”
“Yes, yes. I think it’s the way to go. But why don’t you tell me about your thoughts, Penny?” Sam says, taking a long draught from his glass.
Rochelle smiles encouragingly. I want my raise, and I want the project to move along, but I need to get to the party right now.
“So, when we were thinking about the best way to centralize things, gain economies of scale, etcetera, the only hiccup was that it would deprive the regions of applying their individual expertise as far as their audiences and target accounts,” I begin.
The Intrepid is a giant warship-turned-museum, steel gray and imposing and docked on Manhattan’s West Side.
It’s lit up gorgeously right now, its hull towering above me.
I rush into the Welcome Center building on the dock alongside the ship, toss my bag onto the security desk to be inspected, and pass through the metal detector.
The elevator takes too long, so I race up the metal stairs.
My panting nearly drowns out the music drifting from the event space as I cross the covered metal gangway to the hangar deck.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be more interested in my surroundings, but I’ve been to more than one event on this ship, and I am late as shit.
The cavernous space is filled with round tables festooned with white tablecloths and beautiful green topiaries punctuated with flowers and strung with fairy lights. Though the room’s walls and ceiling are dark, vivid blue and purple spotlights cast cool light throughout the room.
It looks magical and beautiful, and my heart melts a little that Avery handpicked all the details for his parents’ special day. There are easily four hundred people here, most seated and laughing. A band plays light jazz at the head of the dance floor in the center of the room.
“Where the hell have you been?” Margie demands, storming over to me looking like an Amazonian princess in her gold, figure-hugging dress.
“Why didn’t you answer your texts? We’re sitting at the table next to the Vaughns.
” She points. “Go say congrats to them, beg Avery for his forgiveness, and come sit and scarf your salmon. Speeches are coming up.”
I release a relieved breath. I was hoping Avery would save the speeches for after the meal.
I shuffle along behind her as fast as my heels will allow, and the Vaughns leap from their seats as I approach, their welcoming smiles bringing tears to my eyes.
They’re the best sort of people, always proud to know you, no matter what you’re doing.
Forever radiating kindness. The kind of people who work the soup kitchen on Thanksgiving each year, and they bought me a beautiful locket with pictures of Avery and Margie for my graduation.
They’re the bar that every other relationship on the planet aspires to reach.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. You look gorgeous, Mrs. V.
,” I say, bending to kiss her soft cheek.
And it’s true. With her short-cropped white hair, twinkly green eyes behind gold-wire-framed glasses, and papery skin, she usually looks like she belongs on the wrapper for cookie dough—a Food Network domestic goddess.
But right now, in her red sequined gown with its smart little jacket, her hair styled in an elegant swoop, and her green eyes lined, she looks exquisite.
It’s not just what she’s wearing, either—it’s the look in her eyes when her husband comes within her field of vision.
Mr. Vaughn looks stately, his dark brown skin glowing with good health.
He’s carrying his black suit on his frame as well as he must have carried the uniform he wore on this very ship when he served.
I kiss him on the cheek, too. “Congratulations to you both. You’re an inspiration to all us single folk. ”
“We try our best.” Mrs. V. laughs.
“Mr. V., you’re going to have to show me how to fire one of those mean guns on deck.”
“What do you need a weapon for when you’ve got that wit of yours? I always tell Avery you’re the funny one.”
There’s a flat look in Avery’s eyes that makes me quail inside. I circle the table to hug him and whisper, “I’m so sorry. I got stuck at that work thing, and I’m the worst, and I’m sorry. I’m here for the speech, though.”