The proposal, p.4
The Proposal, page 4
“Thanks, Leo. I told you he was a sweetheart.” Sam walked between us and sat behind his desk, oblivious to the palpable tension filling the room.
Keeping my eyes on my new events buddy, I lifted my croissant and took a hearty bite. “God, this is fan-fucking-tastic. Don’t you think, Sam?” It was actually pretty damn good for a coffee shop pastry.
The woman’s gaze narrowed and her nostrils flared.
“It’s delicious. Oh, I feel terrible. Zara, did you want some?”
“Don’t worry, Sam. Z’s not big on accepting offers from others. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Her jaw clenched. “He’s right, Sam. I’m fine. I’ve already had my breakfast. We should get started on our presentation. I have other work to do today.”
“You two can take the corner office.”
“Thanks, Sam. We’ll get to work. Don’t worry, I’ve got this handled.” Food. Booze. Music. It was all people needed. “After you.” I held out my arm, stepping out of the doorway.
Zara yanked her portfolio up from its spot leaning against the chair and stormed out of the office.
I let her go and couldn’t stop myself from watching her walk away with unbridled fury.
She had nice legs. Long and shapely, powerful even, with the way she was trying to stomp her way through the concrete floor.
I cleared my throat. “Z, it’s this way.”
She stopped short, her shoulders so tense I expected a tendon to pop. Whirling around with fire in her eyes, she stared at me expectantly.
“In here.” I took another massive bite of my croissant.
“Don’t call me Z.” She swung her portfolio in my direction.
“Why not? We’re all friends here.” At this rate, I’d have her quitting the job in a few hours. Then I could figure out what the hell I was doing, get everything smoothed out, and put Sam and Simply Stark in a better position.
“Not even co-workers. You could’ve mentioned earlier that I was headed in the wrong direction.”
“I could have.” I shrugged and pushed open the office door, wearing my smuggest grin. The one that had my sorry ass running five laps around the football field during freshman year of college when I decided to show up to practice hung over. My college coach had wiped it off my face until I was drafted, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t whip it out for special occasions.
“Let’s get this over with.” Her biting smile leached hostility into the air.
I gave her an hour tops. With her put-together looks, towering heels, and perfectly primped hair, she wasn’t someone used to getting her hands dirty.
“Those napkins are the exact same color.” We’d flipped through three stacks of vendor samples to find the perfect shade of white for the table cloths. Was this what my life had come to? This was the guy I was now. Instead of committing eighty different plays to memory until I could run them in my sleep, I was fighting over fabric samples with a woman who hadn’t sat down in the five hours we’d been cooped up in this room.
She pored over the sample books. Her lips did this thing where she sucked in one half of her bottom lip and then the other half. They were full and constantly shiny. Soft and pink.
Her head snapped up. “They’re completely different.” She held up two identical squares of fabric. “Light rose and light raspberry. They’re completely different.”
I needed out of this room. Staring at her lips, getting sucked in when she was the most infuriating woman ever, was a sign we’d been at this too long. “They’re pink.”
She gritted her teeth and sunk her head, running her fingers across her forehead. “They’re not. You know what?” Her deep, heavy exhale ratcheted up my anger. At every step she treated me like I was a moron. “Let’s move onto something else. The tables.”
“Fine. There will be 150 people, so we need 15 tables. Done.”
She scowled. “This isn’t a simple, seventh-grade math problem. We need to decide how many cocktail tables we need, if ten person rounds are appropriate for what we have in mind…”
I picked up the glass paperweight and tossed it from hand to hand. “Have a few of each and people will figure out where they want to sit. We’re not solving world peace here.”
She slammed her hand down on the table. “Is this a joke to you?”
I palmed the weight and leaned over the table. “Of course not, but I’m not going to obsess over every miniscule piece of these events. Do you think anyone cares about the napkin colors? Will they be able to tell the difference between rose and raspberry? Are they going to storm out and kick us off the job if there are twelve round tables and no cocktail tables? No. People want to have fun, eat good food and drink, even better if it’s an open bar.”
“People also like being surrounded by nice things. They relax people, help them have fun. Do you think we should set up some milk crates and turn over garbage cans and everyone would be happy?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You may not care about this, but my boss does—and the client does. If you want, you can sit the hell down and I’ll handle it.” She leaned in closer, nudging the table straight into my balls.
She thought she could scare me off with boring ass linen decisions? Game on. I jammed my legs against the table. The feet squawked against the floor.
Zara stumbled back a half step.
“And take all the credit? I don’t think so.”
“Then choose a color.” The sounds escaped through her gritted teeth. She flung the sample book to my side of the table.
My jaw popped. “Raspberry.”
“Wonderful.” A calculating, furious narrowing of her gaze, and the list of decisions got longer and longer. She’d never met a decision she could get through the easy way.
“In what world do you think ax throwing would be the best event for a hotel group like Winthorpe?”
“Who wouldn’t want to throw axes? This was a huge hit last time I included it.” After we won our conference championship a couple years ago, the QB rented out the entire facility for the team party, for a chill night. BYOB plus axes had been a guaranteed night of fun in the off season. There had been people from all walks of life every time I visited one. Corporate suits. Husbands and wives. Bachelor parties. Bachelorette parties. It crossed all demographics.
“I could throw an axe right now, for sure.” Zara dropped her pencil and leaned back in her chair, squeezing the bridge of her nose.
“You two are still at it? I’m turning in.” Sam had his jacket draped over his arm and a briefcase in his other hand.
“It’s only—oh wow.” Zara gestured to the windows and froze.
The night sky was pitch black, the autumn sun long gone below the horizon, creating the perfect black mirror to reflect our shocked faces.
I snatched my phone up off the desk. “Shit!” Stacking the papers, we worked on with one hand, I typed out my reply to the twenty unanswered texts lighting up my screen. I wasn’t missing tonight. I’d missed out for the past year, I wasn’t going to be the one who skipped out on stuff until everyone stopped inviting me. Nope, I wasn’t going to be the one left behind. Snatching my jacket off the back of the chair, I threw it on.
“You’re leaving?” Zara stared at me, palms flat on the large conference room table covered in sketches, abandoned scraps of paper, and empty coffee cups.
“We can pick this up tomorrow.”
“Thirty-six hours. That's all we have left. We don’t even have a draft proposal completed.” She stood in front of the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Her favorite pose.
“Finger food. Booze. Axe throwing. Presentation. Throw some bows on it and call it a day. It’s not complicated. Excuse me.”
She squared off in front of me. “We still have vendors to choose, menus to sort through, and we need to figure out what we'll be doing to entertain everyone.”
“Tomorrow is a new day. Why don’t you sleep on it? That way you'll have more energy to jam your color palettes down my throat. You’re in my way.” I nudged her out of the way and jogged toward the elevator.
“Tomorrow at eight am,” she shouted after me.
I stepped into the elevator. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Sneakers scuffed and squeaked off the lacquered wooden floor. Four nets had been lowered from the ceiling for two parallel games on the courts. The entire place smelled like sweat, lacquer, and a dirty gym bag.
I kept my right foot planted, spinning from side to side with Everest guarding me. Even his gym clothes were starched to within an inch of their life.
“Are you washing clothes with all this spinning? Or are you going to shoot sometime today?” Everest kept up his coverage of me.
“Like you’ve ever seen a washing machine, let alone used one. You’d better protect that watch face when I knock your ass over.”
He froze for a second and looked at his wrist.
It was the opening I needed. Throwing a wide elbow, I pulled the hit a bit, but that didn’t mean I didn’t smile at his oof. Lifting my arm, I pushed through the groan of my muscle and let the ball go. It sailed through the air and past Hunter’s attempt at a block, hit the backboard and fell into the net.
“And the crowd goes wild.” I cupped my hand around my mouth and imitated the roar of a stadium full of fans. August and I high fived. He spun the ball on his finger in our victory dance. We grabbed our water bottles. It had been a while since I’d worked up a sweat like this. It felt good to be out of breath after an hour of game play, even if it wasn’t my game of choice.
Hunter jogged across the gym to grab the game ball.
“The reigning Thursday night basketball champions,” I put on my best echoing announcer voice and added in more fan cheering before taking a gulp of water.
Everest slipped his watch off and shoved it into the zipper pocket of his bag. “That’s the closest you’ll get to a crowd saying your name anytime soon.”
I tossed my water bottle down and it bounced in the gap in the bleachers. “What’s your problem?”
August and Hunter got between us.
“My problem is you show up throwing elbows and throwing off the team dynamics and can’t even be humble about a win. This isn’t a stadium. This is for fun. We’re blowing off some steam, that’s all.”
Throwing off the team dynamics. They’d found their groove without me, all hanging out at college together. But fuck him, I was part of this group too. Our weekly game was a way to keep us all from drifting into the solitude of adulthood. A friendly—okay, sometimes not so friendly—game of basketball, followed by wings and beers at The Griffin.
“Sorry we can’t all be as refined as you, Everest. My etiquette lessons were cancelled because they clashed with my riding lessons.”
He cut a gulp from his water bottle short. “You’re such an asshole.”
“I’m the asshole? We can never go back to a city—hell an entire state—because of you.”
Everest wheeled around, eyes blazing, and shoved his finger in my face. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Jameson nearly tripped himself climbing over our gym bags on the bleachers. “Is this about Milwaukee?”
The name sent a bolt of fear through me. I looked over my shoulder like even mentioning it would summon the consequences of our last night there. Everest, Hunter, and August had the same stricken look I was sure I was wearing. “It’s about nothing.”
I flexed my hands at my sides.
Jameson looked from me to Everest. “It’s been almost four years. It can’t be that bad. What happened?”
We all turned to him at the same time. “Nothing.”
Some of the anger in the room deflated. If there was one thing we all unequivocally agreed on, it was that we never talked about Milwaukee.
Everest picked up his water bottle again, but his eyelid twitched.
I probably got too much satisfaction out of pissing him off.
“Since everyone’s sufficiently wound up now, let’s get to Barry’s before he gives up our booth.” Hunter dribbled the ball and slung his bag over his shoulder. He lifted his arm and took a shot in the basket closest to the locker room door. It sailed through the air, completely missing the hoop and bouncing against the wall. He shook his head and jogged for the ball. “Plus, our court time is almost up.”
As if summoned by his words the double doors on the side of the court banged open.
The doors to the hallway opened and a voice called out, cutting through the squeak of our sneakers on the court. “Nice air ball. You guys are still here? Stick around next time and we’ll show you how to play.” The tallest one stood with his little bird arms—seconds away from snapping—crossed over his chest, surrounded by his friends. He only came up to Hunter’s chest.
“Don’t start things you can’t finish.” Hunter bent down, glaring at the seventh grader.
“I can finish anything you can dish out, old man.” The kid scoffed and looked to his teammates over his shoulder.
“Old man?!”
“Are you seriously about to scrap with a thirteen-year-old?” Jameson grabbed Hunter’s bag, pulling him away.
“He started it.”
“If I hadn’t seen you walk across the stage at our graduation, I’d swear you were thirteen.” Jameson dragged Hunter toward the locker room exit.
The kid cupped his hands around his mouth. “Next time. Me versus you. Mano a mano.”
“Let me know when the other mano arrives,” Hunter shouted over his shoulder as the locker room door closed.
I nudged Hunter. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever seen with kids.”
“They weird me out. They’re like adults, but small.” He said it with a completely straight expression and slightly disgusted face.
I grabbed my clothes out of my gym bag. “It was your idea to play at the Y.”
Hunter shrugged. “I got a good deal on our family membership.”
“What the hell kind of screwed up family would we be?” August tugged his shirt over his head.
“The best kind—one that can go to different houses at the end of the night.” Everest slipped on his shoes. They were probably Italian leather flown over from Milan on a private jet encrusted in jewels. The rest of the guys I played basketball with got big pro contracts rotating out every month or so. But I wasn’t one of them. I’d gone to school with them and worked just as hard—if not harder—to get where I was at today, and it would never make me one of them.
And no, I wasn’t bitter.
Not one damn bit.
6
Zara
Most of the lights were out when I got back to the office. Had I known I was going to be gone all day, I’d have brought everything with me. The stack of invoices to process from vendors, Valerie’s expense reports, and the vendor samples to organize would only be waiting for me in the morning, if I didn’t take care of them tonight. Somehow my position had become the catch all, but maybe not for much longer.
A sneaky yawn escaped. I cracked my back, blinking hard to keep my eyes open.
“Nice of you to show up.”
My neck and shoulders tightened. Since a massage wasn’t in the cards, finding relief would mean grinding a tennis ball and my back against the wall like a grizzly bear in those toilet paper commercials.
Every word was a grating, passive-aggressive, backhanded comment, but I bit my tongue like I’d done since my very first day. What choice did I have? She was a known entity. I could handle her and let every insult roll off my back—at least, I could try to. This job was what I needed to keep Ty and me off the streets, and I’d do everything in my power to keep it and not let him down.
“I had some things for you to do.” Valerie’s nasal, entitled voice was like needles to my brain.
“The Winthorpe project took longer than I thought to set up. I came back to finish a few things, but now I’m going home.” I shut down my computer.
She was in full make up, a shimmery, sequined dress, and heels.
“I stopped by to pick up Daddy’s company card. Mine is maxed out.”
From the stack of receipts I’d gone through, I didn’t doubt that.
“Have a great night.” My cheeks ached at my forced smile.
She held up her freshly manicured fingers in front of her. “Entertaining clients requires a certain level of expertise. Maybe someday you’ll understand.”
Was she entertaining them with her mouth? “You’re right. Maybe one day I’ll be as good as you.”
Her dismissive snort was her way of saying goodbye. Thankfully, my doorway was empty by the time I stood up; she’d only stopped by for snide remarks. At this point, I didn’t care. Nothing mattered but getting this account. Winthorpe would be mine. The bonus would be mine. And for ten whole minutes, I’d feel like the world wasn’t on the verge of crashing down around my ears. The way things had been going, I’d take it.
Walking home, I went over everything we still needed to hammer out tomorrow before our meeting on Wednesday. Every idea I’d thrown out had been shot down by Leo. What the hell did he know? What was his experience? Could he sense my inexperience? Did I not actually know what I was doing?
Don’t let him get into your head. You’ve been around the business for two years now. You know this stuff. He’s an asshole and you don’t need him. By the time, I made it to my apartment I’d funneled all my day’s shittiness back to Leo.
In my apartment lobby, a guy held the elevator open for me. Wow, an actual gentleman.
“Thanks,” I mumbled and jabbed the button for my floor, leaning against the wall to stay on my feet. Had I even slept last night? Could I have one day where my feet didn’t feel like they were angry after everything I’d put them through?
Feed his tie into the shredder. Or maybe use the stapler to—
“Are you talking to me?” The guy with the loosened tie and briefcase asked with his shoulder pressed hard against the wall opposite me.
“What? No, sorry, I was talking to myself.” More like grumbling out all the ways I’d murder Leo if he screwed up this pitch. Once we won the job, all bets were off, but I needed him until then. Winthorpe wanted Stark and Easton on this month-long event extravaganza, but it didn’t mean I was above letting everyone know, once we’d won, how much of the work I’d done on my own. Rose and raspberry are the same? Was he out of his mind? Okay, they were close, but come on. These were important details in our industry.
Keeping my eyes on my new events buddy, I lifted my croissant and took a hearty bite. “God, this is fan-fucking-tastic. Don’t you think, Sam?” It was actually pretty damn good for a coffee shop pastry.
The woman’s gaze narrowed and her nostrils flared.
“It’s delicious. Oh, I feel terrible. Zara, did you want some?”
“Don’t worry, Sam. Z’s not big on accepting offers from others. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Her jaw clenched. “He’s right, Sam. I’m fine. I’ve already had my breakfast. We should get started on our presentation. I have other work to do today.”
“You two can take the corner office.”
“Thanks, Sam. We’ll get to work. Don’t worry, I’ve got this handled.” Food. Booze. Music. It was all people needed. “After you.” I held out my arm, stepping out of the doorway.
Zara yanked her portfolio up from its spot leaning against the chair and stormed out of the office.
I let her go and couldn’t stop myself from watching her walk away with unbridled fury.
She had nice legs. Long and shapely, powerful even, with the way she was trying to stomp her way through the concrete floor.
I cleared my throat. “Z, it’s this way.”
She stopped short, her shoulders so tense I expected a tendon to pop. Whirling around with fire in her eyes, she stared at me expectantly.
“In here.” I took another massive bite of my croissant.
“Don’t call me Z.” She swung her portfolio in my direction.
“Why not? We’re all friends here.” At this rate, I’d have her quitting the job in a few hours. Then I could figure out what the hell I was doing, get everything smoothed out, and put Sam and Simply Stark in a better position.
“Not even co-workers. You could’ve mentioned earlier that I was headed in the wrong direction.”
“I could have.” I shrugged and pushed open the office door, wearing my smuggest grin. The one that had my sorry ass running five laps around the football field during freshman year of college when I decided to show up to practice hung over. My college coach had wiped it off my face until I was drafted, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t whip it out for special occasions.
“Let’s get this over with.” Her biting smile leached hostility into the air.
I gave her an hour tops. With her put-together looks, towering heels, and perfectly primped hair, she wasn’t someone used to getting her hands dirty.
“Those napkins are the exact same color.” We’d flipped through three stacks of vendor samples to find the perfect shade of white for the table cloths. Was this what my life had come to? This was the guy I was now. Instead of committing eighty different plays to memory until I could run them in my sleep, I was fighting over fabric samples with a woman who hadn’t sat down in the five hours we’d been cooped up in this room.
She pored over the sample books. Her lips did this thing where she sucked in one half of her bottom lip and then the other half. They were full and constantly shiny. Soft and pink.
Her head snapped up. “They’re completely different.” She held up two identical squares of fabric. “Light rose and light raspberry. They’re completely different.”
I needed out of this room. Staring at her lips, getting sucked in when she was the most infuriating woman ever, was a sign we’d been at this too long. “They’re pink.”
She gritted her teeth and sunk her head, running her fingers across her forehead. “They’re not. You know what?” Her deep, heavy exhale ratcheted up my anger. At every step she treated me like I was a moron. “Let’s move onto something else. The tables.”
“Fine. There will be 150 people, so we need 15 tables. Done.”
She scowled. “This isn’t a simple, seventh-grade math problem. We need to decide how many cocktail tables we need, if ten person rounds are appropriate for what we have in mind…”
I picked up the glass paperweight and tossed it from hand to hand. “Have a few of each and people will figure out where they want to sit. We’re not solving world peace here.”
She slammed her hand down on the table. “Is this a joke to you?”
I palmed the weight and leaned over the table. “Of course not, but I’m not going to obsess over every miniscule piece of these events. Do you think anyone cares about the napkin colors? Will they be able to tell the difference between rose and raspberry? Are they going to storm out and kick us off the job if there are twelve round tables and no cocktail tables? No. People want to have fun, eat good food and drink, even better if it’s an open bar.”
“People also like being surrounded by nice things. They relax people, help them have fun. Do you think we should set up some milk crates and turn over garbage cans and everyone would be happy?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You may not care about this, but my boss does—and the client does. If you want, you can sit the hell down and I’ll handle it.” She leaned in closer, nudging the table straight into my balls.
She thought she could scare me off with boring ass linen decisions? Game on. I jammed my legs against the table. The feet squawked against the floor.
Zara stumbled back a half step.
“And take all the credit? I don’t think so.”
“Then choose a color.” The sounds escaped through her gritted teeth. She flung the sample book to my side of the table.
My jaw popped. “Raspberry.”
“Wonderful.” A calculating, furious narrowing of her gaze, and the list of decisions got longer and longer. She’d never met a decision she could get through the easy way.
“In what world do you think ax throwing would be the best event for a hotel group like Winthorpe?”
“Who wouldn’t want to throw axes? This was a huge hit last time I included it.” After we won our conference championship a couple years ago, the QB rented out the entire facility for the team party, for a chill night. BYOB plus axes had been a guaranteed night of fun in the off season. There had been people from all walks of life every time I visited one. Corporate suits. Husbands and wives. Bachelor parties. Bachelorette parties. It crossed all demographics.
“I could throw an axe right now, for sure.” Zara dropped her pencil and leaned back in her chair, squeezing the bridge of her nose.
“You two are still at it? I’m turning in.” Sam had his jacket draped over his arm and a briefcase in his other hand.
“It’s only—oh wow.” Zara gestured to the windows and froze.
The night sky was pitch black, the autumn sun long gone below the horizon, creating the perfect black mirror to reflect our shocked faces.
I snatched my phone up off the desk. “Shit!” Stacking the papers, we worked on with one hand, I typed out my reply to the twenty unanswered texts lighting up my screen. I wasn’t missing tonight. I’d missed out for the past year, I wasn’t going to be the one who skipped out on stuff until everyone stopped inviting me. Nope, I wasn’t going to be the one left behind. Snatching my jacket off the back of the chair, I threw it on.
“You’re leaving?” Zara stared at me, palms flat on the large conference room table covered in sketches, abandoned scraps of paper, and empty coffee cups.
“We can pick this up tomorrow.”
“Thirty-six hours. That's all we have left. We don’t even have a draft proposal completed.” She stood in front of the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Her favorite pose.
“Finger food. Booze. Axe throwing. Presentation. Throw some bows on it and call it a day. It’s not complicated. Excuse me.”
She squared off in front of me. “We still have vendors to choose, menus to sort through, and we need to figure out what we'll be doing to entertain everyone.”
“Tomorrow is a new day. Why don’t you sleep on it? That way you'll have more energy to jam your color palettes down my throat. You’re in my way.” I nudged her out of the way and jogged toward the elevator.
“Tomorrow at eight am,” she shouted after me.
I stepped into the elevator. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Sneakers scuffed and squeaked off the lacquered wooden floor. Four nets had been lowered from the ceiling for two parallel games on the courts. The entire place smelled like sweat, lacquer, and a dirty gym bag.
I kept my right foot planted, spinning from side to side with Everest guarding me. Even his gym clothes were starched to within an inch of their life.
“Are you washing clothes with all this spinning? Or are you going to shoot sometime today?” Everest kept up his coverage of me.
“Like you’ve ever seen a washing machine, let alone used one. You’d better protect that watch face when I knock your ass over.”
He froze for a second and looked at his wrist.
It was the opening I needed. Throwing a wide elbow, I pulled the hit a bit, but that didn’t mean I didn’t smile at his oof. Lifting my arm, I pushed through the groan of my muscle and let the ball go. It sailed through the air and past Hunter’s attempt at a block, hit the backboard and fell into the net.
“And the crowd goes wild.” I cupped my hand around my mouth and imitated the roar of a stadium full of fans. August and I high fived. He spun the ball on his finger in our victory dance. We grabbed our water bottles. It had been a while since I’d worked up a sweat like this. It felt good to be out of breath after an hour of game play, even if it wasn’t my game of choice.
Hunter jogged across the gym to grab the game ball.
“The reigning Thursday night basketball champions,” I put on my best echoing announcer voice and added in more fan cheering before taking a gulp of water.
Everest slipped his watch off and shoved it into the zipper pocket of his bag. “That’s the closest you’ll get to a crowd saying your name anytime soon.”
I tossed my water bottle down and it bounced in the gap in the bleachers. “What’s your problem?”
August and Hunter got between us.
“My problem is you show up throwing elbows and throwing off the team dynamics and can’t even be humble about a win. This isn’t a stadium. This is for fun. We’re blowing off some steam, that’s all.”
Throwing off the team dynamics. They’d found their groove without me, all hanging out at college together. But fuck him, I was part of this group too. Our weekly game was a way to keep us all from drifting into the solitude of adulthood. A friendly—okay, sometimes not so friendly—game of basketball, followed by wings and beers at The Griffin.
“Sorry we can’t all be as refined as you, Everest. My etiquette lessons were cancelled because they clashed with my riding lessons.”
He cut a gulp from his water bottle short. “You’re such an asshole.”
“I’m the asshole? We can never go back to a city—hell an entire state—because of you.”
Everest wheeled around, eyes blazing, and shoved his finger in my face. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Jameson nearly tripped himself climbing over our gym bags on the bleachers. “Is this about Milwaukee?”
The name sent a bolt of fear through me. I looked over my shoulder like even mentioning it would summon the consequences of our last night there. Everest, Hunter, and August had the same stricken look I was sure I was wearing. “It’s about nothing.”
I flexed my hands at my sides.
Jameson looked from me to Everest. “It’s been almost four years. It can’t be that bad. What happened?”
We all turned to him at the same time. “Nothing.”
Some of the anger in the room deflated. If there was one thing we all unequivocally agreed on, it was that we never talked about Milwaukee.
Everest picked up his water bottle again, but his eyelid twitched.
I probably got too much satisfaction out of pissing him off.
“Since everyone’s sufficiently wound up now, let’s get to Barry’s before he gives up our booth.” Hunter dribbled the ball and slung his bag over his shoulder. He lifted his arm and took a shot in the basket closest to the locker room door. It sailed through the air, completely missing the hoop and bouncing against the wall. He shook his head and jogged for the ball. “Plus, our court time is almost up.”
As if summoned by his words the double doors on the side of the court banged open.
The doors to the hallway opened and a voice called out, cutting through the squeak of our sneakers on the court. “Nice air ball. You guys are still here? Stick around next time and we’ll show you how to play.” The tallest one stood with his little bird arms—seconds away from snapping—crossed over his chest, surrounded by his friends. He only came up to Hunter’s chest.
“Don’t start things you can’t finish.” Hunter bent down, glaring at the seventh grader.
“I can finish anything you can dish out, old man.” The kid scoffed and looked to his teammates over his shoulder.
“Old man?!”
“Are you seriously about to scrap with a thirteen-year-old?” Jameson grabbed Hunter’s bag, pulling him away.
“He started it.”
“If I hadn’t seen you walk across the stage at our graduation, I’d swear you were thirteen.” Jameson dragged Hunter toward the locker room exit.
The kid cupped his hands around his mouth. “Next time. Me versus you. Mano a mano.”
“Let me know when the other mano arrives,” Hunter shouted over his shoulder as the locker room door closed.
I nudged Hunter. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever seen with kids.”
“They weird me out. They’re like adults, but small.” He said it with a completely straight expression and slightly disgusted face.
I grabbed my clothes out of my gym bag. “It was your idea to play at the Y.”
Hunter shrugged. “I got a good deal on our family membership.”
“What the hell kind of screwed up family would we be?” August tugged his shirt over his head.
“The best kind—one that can go to different houses at the end of the night.” Everest slipped on his shoes. They were probably Italian leather flown over from Milan on a private jet encrusted in jewels. The rest of the guys I played basketball with got big pro contracts rotating out every month or so. But I wasn’t one of them. I’d gone to school with them and worked just as hard—if not harder—to get where I was at today, and it would never make me one of them.
And no, I wasn’t bitter.
Not one damn bit.
6
Zara
Most of the lights were out when I got back to the office. Had I known I was going to be gone all day, I’d have brought everything with me. The stack of invoices to process from vendors, Valerie’s expense reports, and the vendor samples to organize would only be waiting for me in the morning, if I didn’t take care of them tonight. Somehow my position had become the catch all, but maybe not for much longer.
A sneaky yawn escaped. I cracked my back, blinking hard to keep my eyes open.
“Nice of you to show up.”
My neck and shoulders tightened. Since a massage wasn’t in the cards, finding relief would mean grinding a tennis ball and my back against the wall like a grizzly bear in those toilet paper commercials.
Every word was a grating, passive-aggressive, backhanded comment, but I bit my tongue like I’d done since my very first day. What choice did I have? She was a known entity. I could handle her and let every insult roll off my back—at least, I could try to. This job was what I needed to keep Ty and me off the streets, and I’d do everything in my power to keep it and not let him down.
“I had some things for you to do.” Valerie’s nasal, entitled voice was like needles to my brain.
“The Winthorpe project took longer than I thought to set up. I came back to finish a few things, but now I’m going home.” I shut down my computer.
She was in full make up, a shimmery, sequined dress, and heels.
“I stopped by to pick up Daddy’s company card. Mine is maxed out.”
From the stack of receipts I’d gone through, I didn’t doubt that.
“Have a great night.” My cheeks ached at my forced smile.
She held up her freshly manicured fingers in front of her. “Entertaining clients requires a certain level of expertise. Maybe someday you’ll understand.”
Was she entertaining them with her mouth? “You’re right. Maybe one day I’ll be as good as you.”
Her dismissive snort was her way of saying goodbye. Thankfully, my doorway was empty by the time I stood up; she’d only stopped by for snide remarks. At this point, I didn’t care. Nothing mattered but getting this account. Winthorpe would be mine. The bonus would be mine. And for ten whole minutes, I’d feel like the world wasn’t on the verge of crashing down around my ears. The way things had been going, I’d take it.
Walking home, I went over everything we still needed to hammer out tomorrow before our meeting on Wednesday. Every idea I’d thrown out had been shot down by Leo. What the hell did he know? What was his experience? Could he sense my inexperience? Did I not actually know what I was doing?
Don’t let him get into your head. You’ve been around the business for two years now. You know this stuff. He’s an asshole and you don’t need him. By the time, I made it to my apartment I’d funneled all my day’s shittiness back to Leo.
In my apartment lobby, a guy held the elevator open for me. Wow, an actual gentleman.
“Thanks,” I mumbled and jabbed the button for my floor, leaning against the wall to stay on my feet. Had I even slept last night? Could I have one day where my feet didn’t feel like they were angry after everything I’d put them through?
Feed his tie into the shredder. Or maybe use the stapler to—
“Are you talking to me?” The guy with the loosened tie and briefcase asked with his shoulder pressed hard against the wall opposite me.
“What? No, sorry, I was talking to myself.” More like grumbling out all the ways I’d murder Leo if he screwed up this pitch. Once we won the job, all bets were off, but I needed him until then. Winthorpe wanted Stark and Easton on this month-long event extravaganza, but it didn’t mean I was above letting everyone know, once we’d won, how much of the work I’d done on my own. Rose and raspberry are the same? Was he out of his mind? Okay, they were close, but come on. These were important details in our industry.
