Chapter 5
Chapter Five
LOLA
I take gulps of air as I rush into the bathroom on my floor, and I splash water on my face.
Oh, Lord. Hell. Crap.
"Fuck."
I grip the sides of the sink, suddenly relieved that no other females who work on this floor feel the need for the bathroom. With a shaky move, I check the time.
It is pushing eleven, which means my fifteen-minute tea break is long over.
Thank everything vaguely holy that I don't ever take more than a few minutes, usually just grabbing some tea and taking it back to my desk, and most of the time, I don't even do that. I use it as a bathroom break. To pee, to take a breath before heading out for the rest of my day.
It is not anything more than me wanting to keep this job. I don't expect extra pay, which is good because that would never happen. I just want to stay on top of things and not do something that might lead to me losing my job.
I know I do good work, but since when has that ever done anything? You have to keep your head down, hold records of your work and accomplishments for when something is brought into question.
I'm aware that this is cynical, but I have seen it, with Dad.
And he died.
I doubt he thought he would wreck my life, too. Knowing him, he probably thought he was making everything better, not worse.
He might not have been the most affectionate or attentive father, but that was just him.
I know he loved me. But he still did things I never knew about.
Things I don't know about. I thought he handled money and various accounts for lots of people.
Finance was what he said he was in. The FBI said he was a mafia man who ripped them off and paid the price, and they wanted to know how involved I was.
The thing is, their story shifted as they tried to squeeze information I don't have, info I never had, from me.
Dad kept his working life separate.
We came from money, and then it suddenly disappeared. A lot of it was seized by the authorities.
I splash a little more water onto my cheeks, then pat them dry using a paper towel.
Thinking of Dad too much at work is a bad idea. Thinking of anything but the job I have ahead of me for the day is terrible as well.
Most of it leads back to Dad, down into grief and the tangle of self-pity and anger that knots like a heavy ball in my stomach.
Stuff like that I don't need at work. After all, there is plenty of room for that when I'm alone.
With shaking hands, I feel where the bag ends behind me. And okay, it seems to cover my ass.
Thank God for large bags.
And thanks, Universe, that I don't look a thing like Ruby.
Because if that had been Ruby, every man's eyes would have noticed, and there would have been catcalls, laughter, and probably proposals of marriage, as the HR here isn't that large, and the men here don't tend to grasp regular social norms, let alone the knowledge of where the lines between sexual harassment and ribbing are.
But I would have noticed laughter. I would have gotten comments thrown at me.
So, thank fuck for the bag.
Even so, I turn and check.
It is in its place, and my skirt is definitely not hiked up.
Of course, as I straighten my shoulders and push out, making my way to my desk, I can't rid myself of the horror of that man noticing. That man commenting.
And worse, I can't scrub away the fact he just might have been the best-looking, best-smelling man ever. A blend of unsmoked tobacco and fruit. A touch of leather and the perfume of roses on a summer's eve.
Together, the scents form something intoxicating in my memory, and if I breathe in, I can almost smell it again.
And when I say he is the best-looking man ever, I mean it. Tall, elegant, dark brown almost black hair with a hint of wave in it that gives it a messy, sexy look. Almost black eyes, a full mouth, a strong Roman nose and cheekbones, and I'm betting there are muscles under the three-piece suit.
I think the term is 'swoon-worthy'?
Except, he saw my ass. And now I want to die.
My only saving grace is that I might never see him again.
Only, to possibly snuff out deeper the only tiny flicker of light in that dark tunnel of shame, there was something familiar about him.
But why or how, I don't know.
I don't recognize him as anyone working for the startup. Too well-dressed, and Barwon is not big enough for a board yet.
And I don't think I have ever seen him here.
Besides, familiar or not, it is almost certain I will never see him again.
I scoff. "And what would you do if you did? Run away? Ask if he wants to see my ass again?"
A giggle hits me, and I shake my head and throw myself into my work.
At five, when Ruby texts me about a drink again, I say yes.
I have enough spare cash for a couple of house wines, as long as we don't go anywhere too fancy. And it is not until I slide into my seat that I realize I have forgotten to put my underwear back on.
It is all in my mind, I get that, well except for the whole skirt bunching up to my waistband. But I fixed that. And it is not like a breeze could lift it when I was walking here.
Still...going commando is weird, different, and I can't shake the feeling that everyone knows.
Ruby doesn't help when she rushes in and says, "Relax, no one here knows you're into going commando."
I swat at her. "I'm not. I...forgot."
She raises a brow. "You forgot? Which part? Taking them off, photocopying them, or just the concept of putting them back on?"
I grab the front of her light jacket, and the approaching bartender backs away at the move. "How did you know?"
"I can't see a line."
Then she peers at me as I let her go and motion to the bartender to come back over. "Wasn't sure if you were gonna clock her or kiss her, so thought I would give you some space." He winks. "I don't like to interfere."
"I will have a Manhattan," Ruby purrs. "And she will have—"
"House wine," I say.
They both recoil.
Ruby dismisses me with a wave of her hand. "She will have what I'm having."
The bartender grins and starts making the drinks.
It is on the tip of my tongue to say I can't afford a fourteen-dollar drink, but I will just have to make it work.
I reach for my bag, but Ruby shakes her head. "On me, kid."
"You're like a year older!"
"And you're still a kid."
"They're both on me, kids." The bartender slips an extra napkin to Ruby.
When he goes, I hiss, "What the hell? He gave you his number."
"Of course, he did. We're the hottest ones in this boring place full of suits, and he is hot. Did you see his reddish hair? I like a redhead. And those tattoos? Divine. Now." She shifts, facing me fully. "Who were you texting? Boyfriend?"
I can't bring myself to tell her the sordid, pathetic truth, so I just nod.
Her eyes narrow. "Don't go wasting your youth on some boring guy who doesn't buy you raunchy panties."
"I don't want raunchy panties."
She looks me up and down. "No. You want to go all naked and bare down there."
"Ruby!"
"I'm saying play the field. Maybe not at the office because I can't find anyone worth banging and dealing with the fallout."
"Well, only because Mr. Dreamy doesn't work there."
She smirks. "No. He's behind the bar..." She gulps half her Manhattan in an unladylike way. It is strong to me, so I only take small sips.
The bartender places another two next to ours.
Ruby opens her purse, puts money down, and slides him a card. Then she ignores him to continue studying me. She points. "You didn't mean Mr. Hot Bartender, did you?"
"No. I got in the lift with some hot guy going down."
She snickers, and I send her a dirty look.
"And... you never told me my skirt was stuck in my waistband."
Ruby gapes.
She gapes some more.
When she finally gets her jaw working again, she leans in. "I would have noticed. Did you go to the bathroom or something after I left?"
"Yes, but—"
"And your bag?"
"On my back."
She breathes out, finishes her first drink, and reaches for her second. "Well, at least that monstrosity is good for something. It hid your naked ass, girl."
"Shut up."
She smiles and leans on the bar, sipping her drink. "So, how did you find out?" Her eyes pop wide. "OMG, don't tell me. And by that, I mean do! Did the hot dude see your naked ass?"
"Yes." I push the word out, seething heat pounding in my veins. "And he wasn't very nice. He made a joke."
"Girl, he flirted? Did you flirt back, let him feel you up—no, of course not. You're not that kind of girl." Then she points at me. "Did you give him your number?"
"No. He left, probably snickering."
"And he doesn't work for Barwon?"
"Not unless he's the basement dweller."
She pats my arm. "Well, at least you never have to see him again."
I pick up my first drink and take a half-decent swallow, the burn not doing a thing to wash the memory away. "Thank God."
WN doesn't text back that night, and as I crawl out of bed at six a.m., I tell myself I'm glad.
But I'm not.
It burns like rejection and burns hard.
I don't date. Even back when we were rich, I didn't date, either. Dad didn't like it, and he used to talk about the virtues of marriage, of being the whole package.
Of course, then his cheeks would go red, and he would clear his throat and find something else to do, but I got what he meant, and the boys he set me up on dates with back in Chicago weren't guys I liked.
When I came to New York for school, I concentrated on my education. I went out with friends, flirted a little, but still didn't do anything.
Going commando now, at the age of twenty-five, is me being pushed beyond my limits.
I mean, I would go to parties, but didn't drink, didn't do anything. It was still fun.
My phone pings as I get out of the shower, and I hurry to it.
Ruby:CEO's called an urgent meeting for all staff. Get here ASAP.
She lives close, so she sometimes rocks up early to get some work done before people start pissing her off—her words, not mine.