CHAPTER 2
JOE
Fuck. Foot in my mouth.
I hadn’t known. I hadn’t known the woman from my story was the boss. I told it to make everyone laugh and lighten the mood, not to poke fun of the boss. I guess I should have known even then who she was—but it had been a long time ago and I hadn’t made the connection.
I followed Lana Bitterman into her office with my heart racing a little harder than it ought to have been. Business types like Ms. Bitterman didn’t usually intimidate me—I’d grown up with plenty of them. I knew their power suits, power ties, their perfectly styled hair, and stone-cold faces were only a cover, a projection they liked to show the world, usually a coverup for some sort of vulnerability they kept hidden.
Me, on the other hand, well, I was the complete opposite. I showed the world exactly who I was—Joe Coffee, twenty-four, barista, lover of life. I wasn’t stuck behind some stuffy desk, trapped in a stuffy suit like this woman.
Yeah, Joe, keep telling yourself that until you believe it.
But, whether the skirt suit Lana Bitterman wore was her personal cage or not was hard to say for certain. Because, as she moved, she held herself with such an attractive dignity, an unspoken confidence, that I couldn’t help but be a little impressed.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Ms. Bitterman said to me as she moved to stand behind her desk, “I’m not a thirty-something. I’m thirty. Period. Just thirty.”
That was what she took away from my story? The fact that I’d misinterpreted her age two years ago?
“Okay.” I crossed my arms over my chest and remained standing on the opposite side of her desk. “Do you want me to apologize or something?”
I couldn’t exactly read her. Was that what she needed from me to move past my story?
“No. Have a seat.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
She sighed, resting her hands on her desk, staring at me so intensely that I nearly sat down just to appease her. I’d called her beautiful in the same sentence, had she not heard that part?
“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over? Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Lana Bitterman.” She moved a hand off her desk, extending it for me to shake.
I took her hand in my mine with a bit of hesitation. “Nice to meet you. Joe Coffee.” I swallowed hard. Her hand fit nicely in mine, surprisingly, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there might have been a little spark between us. I didn’t linger, though, and I pulled away from her grip quickly.
“To be honest, Ms. Bitterman, I’m a little confused as to why you’ve brought me here.” I wasn’t confused at all. I’d been waiting for it for quite some time, but I needed to play dumb.
Brushing her hands along the backside of her skirt, she sat in her black leather chair, her eyes widely focused on my chair. It was killing her that I just wouldn’t sit. Grunting, uncrossing my arms, I sat to make her happy. “There. Happy?”
“Yes. Thank you. And it’s Lana,” she said softly. “You can call me Lana.”
“Lana,” I repeated. It was a pretty name. A pretty name for a pretty woman. There was something angelic about her—perhaps it was her light blond hair or her pale blue eyes—but I knew from her reputation, and from the day she scared the piss out of me because of a little lid, that there was absolutely nothing angelic about her. And I reminded myself of that fact—because that was where I needed to keep my focus.
“You’re the best barista in our company. I want to promote you.”
A little prickle of heat ran through me. Could this woman see straight through me? See all my secrets? See the real reason I sat in her office? I rubbed my hands against my jeans. My hands were slightly sweaty, which didn’t make sense since the air condition in Lana’s office was set on arctic blast.
“You’re a Harvard Law dropout. You quit with less than one semester to go before graduation.”
Oh fuck, she did more than just Google me.
“Oh, am I now?” I sat back in my chair. “Go on, this is interesting,” I joked, but my heart pounded.
“Before Harvard, you graduated from MIT with a bachelor’s degree in AeroAstro Engineering. I was so curious, I even contacted one of the professors from that program at MIT. He more or less told me you could turn water into wine. Of course, none of this was listed on your application, which I have a copy of as well. All you listed on the application was your high school in Portland. But you didn’t go to high school in Portland, did you? You went to a private academy in New York City, a damn prestigious one, too.” She waved a piece of paper through the air, dropping it, letting it fall back on her desk. I tried not to glance at it, but from the corner of my eye, I could see the Java Beans logo on the top. I’d purposely lied and left a few things out when I filled out my original application for my barista job two years ago.
“What’s your point?” I asked her. Frankly, it terrified the shit out of me that she’d hired someone to investigate me so thoroughly. Calling one of my old professors? Was she insane? Was this an interview or an interrogation? Did Doug know she’d done all this? Had he used one of his minions to plant the idea in her head? Or was she intuitive enough to be suspicious of me on her own?
“Researching you was kind of like falling down a dark rabbit hole,” she admitted. “It sucked me in, and once I started investigating, it was hard to stop. You’re not the average barista, that’s for certain.
I stood. “Honestly, Lana, you’re kind of freaking me out.”
I said it because she was. And there were too many skeletons in the past, skeletons that needed to stay buried.
“Wait,” she stood, “I don’t mean to offend you in any way. Please . . . listen, I’m serious about promoting you. You’re not in here because you’re a great barista. Plenty of people are great baristas. I noticed you because of that, yes, but it’s the other stuff that has my interest piqued. You’re smart—a genius even. You’re charismatic. You’re hardworking. You’ve got great customer service skills. I want to capitalize on all of that before anyone else does. I’m going to be completely honest with you.”
She leaned on her desk. When she did that I could almost see down her blouse—almost. And for some inexplicable reason, it made my heart thump for a whole new reason. Why did she have to be beautiful?
“The company is expanding faster than I can keep up,” she explained, “and I’m in a bit over my head. Look at this.” She gestured for me to come look at something on the other side of her desk.
Did she have a lethal rattlesnake behind that massive desk, ready to let it sink its razor-sharp teeth into me? Probably. I cautiously inched closer to her and the opposite side of her desk. Tentatively, I glanced at what she was referring to.
She had what looked like a crib mattress positioned perfectly in the space under her desk. She also had some blankets folded up and a pillow under her desk.
Oh. I guess she slept here at night.
I instantly relaxed.
Somehow her strange little under-the-desk bed helped me relax.
“That’s yours?”
“Like I said, I’m in way over my head.”
Why was she telling me this?
“And what sort of job do you have in mind for me?” I asked.
We stood entirely too close now that I’d moved to the opposite side of her desk. Standing next to her, I found she was shorter than she appeared from a distance. The top of her head would barely make it to my chin. I had a hard time concentrating this close, so I stepped away, back over to where the air wasn’t quite so thick.
The effect she had on me was slightly unsettling and certainly new. As I watched her lips move, not hearing her words, I wondered what it was about her that was having an effect on me. Her pretty face—no, plenty of women in this world were good looking. Her age—yeah, so she was older than me, more mature than me, so what? If anything, I should be turned off by that, but it seemed I wasn’t. Or was it the fact that I’d been sent into this room to destroy this woman—and my conscience was trying to find a way to stop me from the inevitable that would follow?
I knew the answer. It was number three. My dad once told me that I needed to toughen up because my heart would always be my biggest downfall, and dammit to hell if my old man hadn’t been one-hundred and ten percent accurate.
But fuck him. Fuck my conscience. And fuck Lara Bitterman.
I would do what had to be done.
“Joe?” Her lips formed my name, breaking me from my thoughts. “Joe! Did you hear anything I just said?”
“No. Sorry. I spaced for a moment. I have ADHD and sometimes my focus breaks. I’m sure that wasn’t written on any of your reports from the private investigator you must have hired to research me.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to decide if she believed me or not.
I hadn’t meant to tell her about my ADHD. It wasn’t something I went around shouting. But still, it was the truth. My mind ran faster than everyone else’s around me—it was both a curse and a blessing. And I could tell she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Or maybe she just didn’t like being snapped at. I had been a little harsh with her for no reason whatsoever just now.
Frankly, this was the worst fucking interview in the history of interviews. I was surprised she hadn’t told me to get out of her office already and never come back. Doug had to be having an aneurism right about now.
“Sorry,” I offered, lowering the tone in my voice, trying to redeem myself. “Please repeat what you just said. I’m focused now. It won’t happen again.”
Her fingers fidgeted with a string of large beads she wore around her neck while her eyes remained unsure. After a moment’s pause, she answered, “I have work I need to get back to. Can you start tomorrow—be here at eight o’clock? Trial basis, of course. We can go over everything I’ll be expecting from you then.”
I still didn’t even know what my job title was. Or what I’d be doing for this woman. I suppose it didn’t really matter.
“Yes, eight works for me.”
She gave me a small nod which I returned with a small smile. Then I left her office, not daring to look back.
***
“I thought you were supposed to be charming,” Doug grunted. He popped a pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand a couple of times, as if he were about to get one out and smoke it, but he never removed a single cigarette from the pack.
“I am charming,” I corrected.
“No, you nearly fucked that up.”
“Relax, she loved me. I got the job, didn’t I? I start tomorrow. So stop looking at me like that.”
Still, he stared at me with harsh, unwavering eyes. Soulless eyes—that was what he had. Like the Devil’s eyes, I concluded silently. “Did the words ‘trial basis’ slip past your incompetent ears?” Doug grunted. “You haven’t officially gotten any job. I can’t believe you told her you had ADHD. What was that about? Was that even true?”
I shrugged. “She shared a personal detail about herself.” I meant the sleeping in her office detail, but since Doug could only hear our conversation, I wasn’t sure if he knew that much, so I didn’t elaborate. I still didn’t understand why she’d shared that with me. “So I shared something about myself. Relax, Doug, I’m not a moron. I know how to make someone as stiff as Lana trust me. It takes a little bit of time, but I promise, everyone always likes me. I’m endearing.”
“Well, it felt a little like you were trying to sabotage yourself on purpose. You understand what would happen if you sabotaged this on purpose, don’t you?” In an instant, his voice went from regular mean to a whole new level of nasty.
I’d been wearing a wire during my interview—if it was an interview—with Lana today. Doug Maddox had been on the other end, listening the whole time, hanging on my every word. He made a good point, too. I hadn’t completely been my normal, relaxed, easy going and easy to like self. I’d been short with Lana. But I heard the threat in his voice now. I understood the consequences if I fucked this up. I knew the power Doug had over me. I knew what he would do if I didn’t help him take down Lana.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I guess knowing that you have ADHD explains a few things.”
“Does it now?” I snapped the cigarette box straight out of his anxious fingers, opening it, taking one out from the pack. I knew a recovering addict when I saw one. Doug didn’t carry the box to actually smoke the damn things, he carried them as a reminder not to, as a crutch. I used to smoke, which was how I knew this. I still carried a lighter in my pocket, always, even though I’d long since quit. Not even sure if the lighter in my pocket would still work, I took it out and tried it anyway. It worked, and I lit that cigarette right in front of Doug’s envious eyes. Because I hated him. I hated him on so many levels, and if this was one way I could torture him, I would do it in a heartbeat.
I inhaled deeply, savoring this moment, my first cigarette in roughly two years and a month, while also savoring the needy, jealous look in Doug’s eyes. I wasn’t sure which was better—the harsh, smoky hit at the back of my throat, or the look I had never seen in Doug’s eyes before.
“Don’t be a child,” he snapped at me, which was a stupid thing to say considering he wasn’t that much older than me. “When you go into Lana’s office tomorrow, I expect you to be on your best behavior. Do you realize how many people I had to pay to make this happen? You might be charming and charismatic, but you’re not that charming and charismatic. Lana didn’t come up with this cockeyed idea to hire you all on her own. It took me months to make this happen. Remember that. And wear a damn suit tomorrow. You could pass for homeless in those clothes.”
He grabbed the cigarette from my mouth and flicked it onto the sidewalk at my feet, before he turned and walked away without another word.
I inhaled sharply, my fists balling at my sides. I would have loved nothing more than to have chased after that man and beat him—and his designer suit—into a bloody mess.
It was what I hated about people like Doug Maddox. People who are born into money and grow up only ever knowing money, it gives them a sense of entitlement, makes them think because they have money that they somehow have the right to treat the rest of the world like shit.
You aren’t him, I silently told myself. Not anymore.
I inhaled and exhaled, collecting my breath and my thoughts. The lit cigarette was still lying there on the pavement, intact and calling my name. I knew I should have left it be, left a piece of my past there on the cement, but I figured what could one more inhale really hurt? I’d already fucked my record anyway.
Since I knew I’d be starting all over at day one again, I bent down to my knees and grabbed it. I brought it to my lips, not bothering to stand back up. I savored what would be my last ever—hopefully, my last ever—cigarette in my life. Until a pair of beautiful legs broke the moment and my concentration.
Damn, those are nice.
Toned and smooth, curvy in just the right places, standing beside me in a pair of white fuck me heals. The testosterone in my body instantly spiked. In general, I never really considered myself a ‘legs man,’ but hell if all of that didn’t change in one single glance. I wanted those legs wrapped around my waist. I wanted to know how they felt as I ran my hands up them, past the edges of that skirt, breaking all the rules I had set in place to protect myself a long time ago.
I squinted up into the cloudy sky, desperately needing to see who these perfect, pristine legs belonged to.
Fucking Lana Bitterman. The legs belonged to Lana Bitterman.
Out of her office.
On the street.
With a breath, semi-frustrated with myself now, I stood.