I’ve only been sitting with Chelsea for about five minutes before I spot Dylan at the bar. We make brief eye contact before I look away, praying he won’t come over to our table.
Because God doesn’t like me, he comes over to our table.
“Well, well, look who’s here! Hiya, Shay.”
“Hello, Dylan.”
“Who’s your pretty friend?”
Chelsea looks him over, assesses within a nanosecond that he doesn’t have the right watch, shoes, or haircut for her financial requirements, and gives him one of her not-in-a-million-years-pal smiles.
“I’m Chelsea. Hi.”
Not understanding that he’s already been judged and determined lacking, Dylan grins at her. “Nice to meet you, Chelsea. Me and Shay work together.”
She deadpans, “How thrilling.”
I’ve done a decent job of avoiding him this week, but there have been a few memorable run-ins. On Tuesday, he caught me in the break room getting coffee and asked if I was married. When I said no, he said maybe he’d fix that soon while staring at my chest.
Wednesday had him running to catch the elevator I was on while the doors were closing. We rode down to the parking garage together while he told dick jokes and I thought about reporting him to Ruth in human resources.
Then this morning, he casually leaned against the frame of my open office door and asked if I’d heard of the amazing new club downtown. When I said no, he went on to describe it in great detail. It became clear after only a few seconds that he was talking about a strip club.
“Incredible decor,” he said. “I’m a big admirer of good interior decorating.”
Which is like saying you subscribe to Playboy for the articles.
Now he’s looking back and forth between me and Chelsea like he wants to be the meat in our cheese sandwich.
Uninvited, he drags a chair over from the table next to us and sits down.
“Okay, you don’t have to ignore me so aggressively, ladies. You’re starting to look desperate.”
We laugh politely at his dumb joke and share a pained glance.
“So how’s your first week working for the Grinch been, Shay?”
I’d rather gouge out my own eyeballs than tell this moron anything negative about Cole, so I smile brightly. “Wonderful. He’s really great.”
Dylan makes a face. “That’s not the word I’d use. Cole McCord is an asshole.”
I don’t like Dylan using Cole’s first name. It seems too familiar and disrespectful. More than that, I don’t like him calling him an asshole. That’s reserved for me, and I’d never say it aloud to someone else. Especially a co-worker.
Irritated, I wipe the smile off my face and stare at him coldly. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy looking at Chelsea’s cleavage.
“Cole?” she says, munching on a tortilla chip. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
I send her a meaningful look. She falls still, then her eyes widen. She mouths No!
Luckily, Dylan decides then to ask us if he can buy us a round of drinks. Wanting to get rid of him, I say no thanks and hope he’ll go away, but Chelsea never misses the opportunity to take advantage of her pretty-girl-free-drinks privilege and says yes.
“Two skinny margaritas, please. You’re a doll.”
“Be right back, ladies.”
He rises, puffs out his chest, and looks around to make sure everyone nearby sees he’s got two women at his table as if we’re his harem.
The moment he’s gone, Chelsea leans forward and hisses, “Cole? The Cole?”
“The very same.”
“What the fuck, bitch? How did you not tell me this before?”
“I only found out the day I started that he was my boss.”
“You’ve been working there for a week already!”
“I know, but we haven’t talked all week.”
“You should’ve called me first thing Monday morning! You twat! I hate you!” Eyes shining with excitement, she leans closer and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Tell me everything.”
I give her a brief overview of the situation, starting with Cole slamming his office door in my face and ending with me accidentally signing off as Ms. McCord on the inter-office memo. When I’m done, she slumps back into her chair and stares at me in amazement.
“What are the odds that you end up working for the same guy you had a one-night stand with?”
“Astronomical. I blame you for the whole thing.”
She laughs. “And you’re welcome.”
“No, I’m not welcome. It’s a disaster.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Nobody. I’m taking it to my grave.”
“So I can only tell Angel and Jen.”
“Nobody, Chelsea. This is too problematic.”
“How is it problematic?”
“I fucked my boss!”
“So?”
“So it’s unethical.”
She scoffs. “It’s not like it was intentional.”
“Oh, it was intentional all right.”
She grabs my wrist, gasping. “Wait, did you do it again?”
“No. And we won’t because there’s a strict company policy against it. Plus, I don’t think we like each other.”
“Who cares if you like each other? The man is smoking hot and left you walking on clouds! Get back on that baloney pony and ride it into the sunset!”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re the epitome of romantic. Let go of my wrist.”
She does, only to pick up another tortilla and chomp on it. Juicy gossip always makes her hungry.
Dylan returns with two margaritas and sets them on the table. “House specials, ladies. Drink up. I’ll be right back. Gotta get my beer.”
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Chelsea starts in again. “I’m literally going to kill you for making me wait to hear this. How do you want to die?”
“Shut up.”
“I know, I’ll call up your hot boss and ask him if he could please fuck you to death.” She makes a goofy face and mimics humping.
“What are you, twelve? Stop that.”
“Listen, you know it’s inevitable.”
“What is?”
“You riding his dick again.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“It’s totally gonna happen. There will be so much sexual tension in that office, you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
“He works on a different floor. And he’s been ignoring me. He doesn’t want to do it again.”
“Honey, that man bought you two meals and a Balmain blouse. Trust me on this. He wants to bone you.”
“Who wants to bone you?”
Chelsea and I pull apart and look up in horror at Dylan, standing over us, holding a sweating bottle of Modelo.
He tilts his head in my direction and winks. “Were you two just talking about me?”
It’s a good thing I haven’t eaten anything yet. It would be all over his shirt.
“Haha.” I grab the margarita and suck it down, wishing the ceiling would fall on his head.
He takes his seat again, makes himself comfortable, and launches into a rant about potholes, of all things. Apparently, he’s on some minor local political committee tasked with surveying all the potholes on the west side. This makes him feel very important, as evidenced by how many times he says, “It’s a really big deal.”
Chelsea eats tortilla chips in polite silence and pretends to listen, while really she’s counting down the minutes until her goodwill, purchased with margaritas, expires.
Judging by her glazed eyes, I think he’s got about thirty seconds left.
“Wow, you really went through that drink! I’ll get you another one.”
Grinning one of his obnoxious grins at me, Dylan stands and heads back to the bar.
When he’s gone, Chelsea groans. “Oh my God, that guy could euthanize animals with his personality. He should go work for a vet.”
“That would be inhumane treatment. Let’s order some food. My stomach’s growling.”
Not only is my stomach growling, my head feels weird. It’s probably a side-effect of inhaling Dylan’s cologne.
We flip through the menus the hostess left with us when we were seated and decide on two entrées we’ll share because we always eat off each other’s plate. Chelsea flags down the waitress, and we order.
Then, like a recurring rash, Dylan comes back. He holds out a fresh margarita to me with a flourish, as if it’s a Christmas present he spent all winter making.
“Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome.”
He takes his chair and watches me as I’m taking a sip. His grin is gone now, and his energy is different. More intense.
“You’re really hot. But you already know that. I can tell by the way you strut around the office with your nose in the air.”
Chelsea snorts. “Slow down, tiger. You can’t pour on the charm all at once, she’ll faint.”
I set the drink on the table and turn to him with my brows lifted and a challenge in my voice. “Excuse me?”
Proving himself the charmless dirtbag he is, he doesn’t back down or try to pretend he was joking. He only shrugs, as if I’m lucky to be the recipient of his attention, and doubles down.
“It was a compliment.”
“Sure didn’t sound like one.”
“I like confident women.”
“Seems like what you like is to tear them down.”
He looks straight into my eyes and smiles. “Or tear off their clothes.”
Warmth blooms over my chest. I’d say it was anger, but I’m also slightly dizzy, and my stomach has turned sour. I look away from Dylan and focus on Chelsea.
She has a strange, fuzzy halo around her head.
She frowns at me. “You okay?”
“I think I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
I stand, surprised to find I need to hold onto the table for support as I rise. My legs are shaky, and my heart’s beating too fast. Making my way slowly across the restaurant, I try to remember what I had for breakfast and lunch. I must’ve eaten something bad.
I make it to the ladies room, turn on the spigot at the sink, and splash cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror looks dazed. My color is awful. Even though I’m roasting hot, my complexion is gray.
I shut off the water and lean against the sink. Closing my eyes, I inhale a few deep breaths. It doesn’t help. The pulsing ranchera music piped through the ceiling speakers is making my dizziness worse.
Drying my face with a paper towel, I fight to stay steady. On my way out the door, I stumble and wind up banging into the wall.
I stand there for a few moments in the dim corridor by an old, inoperable pay phone, sweating and hyperventilating, wondering what the hell is happening to me. I feel as if I’ve had ten shots of tequila.
Closing my eyes again, I swallow down the hot bile rising in the back of my throat.
“There you are. You all right, Shay? Here, let me help you.”
The voice is Dylan’s. Smooth and low, it comes to me as if from very far away. A strong hand curls around my upper arm and squeezes.
“I’m okay, really. I just need…I need…” I don’t know what I need. I can’t think. My brain isn’t working right.
“You should probably go home and get to bed. You look really sick.”
When I open my eyes, my vision is blurry. I try to push off the wall, but don’t have the strength.
My lack of strength soon doesn’t matter because Dylan peels me off the wall and starts to lead me in the opposite direction down the corridor from where I came, toward an exit door at the end.
“Wait. Hold on. Dylan, get Chelsea. I need Chelsea.”
He winds his arm around my shoulders and propels me forward, shushing me when I make a small cry of distress. I stumble again, losing my balance, but he catches me, grabbing me roughly and pulling me against his chest.
“Only a few more steps,” he coos into my ear. “We’ll get you home safe and sound, Shay. My car is right outside. I’ll take you there.”
Why can’t I feel my legs?
It’s the last thought I have before my vision goes black, and I fall forward into nothingness.
