Chapter Eight

 

Julie

 

"I think this one is my favorite so far," I say.

I laugh as I turn my phone toward Mrs. Livingston again, so she can see the picture on the screen.

"I can't believe you did that to Shane Lawson," she said.

I laugh again and shrug. Turning the phone toward myself, I look at the image of Shane, a streak of white paint down the bridge of his nose.

"Only his face," I say. "It's not like I had him strip down, so I could use him as a giant canvas."

I can't believe those words just came out of my mouth. I just told an elderly woman wearing pearls and a cardigan that thoughts of Shane naked had flickered through my mind.

"Well," she says, moving right past the comment, "it seems the two of you had fun."

I nod.

"We did," I say as casually as I can. "That wasn't really the point, though. We were there so he could look good in front of the families and meet some local kids. It makes him seem more like a real person."

"Just make sure you keep that in mind," Mrs. Livingston says. "You don’t want to get yourself too invested in this. Or in him."

I'm surprised by the comment and look up at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I heard the way you talked about Shane when you first told me about him. I saw how you looked at him when he was here the first time. You were angry and resentful. You didn't want to be in the same room with him, much less dedicate all this time and effort working with him."

"So?"

"So, I hope you remember that this is a professional project, nothing personal. You're starting to remind me of a little girl who brought home a bird with a broken wing and nursed him back to health, only you don’t want to let him go once he's mended."

"Trust me. That's not what's happening here. I might have brought a broken bird home, but that bird is arrogant, rude, entitled, and thinks he's the greatest thing since sliced… birdseed."

"You lost control of that metaphor at the end there, didn't you?"

"A little bit, yeah. But the point still stands. He's the same Shane Lawson who has caused so much trouble in my life. Even if he wasn't, though, aren't you the one who told me I should keep an open mind because people change?"

"I might have, but that can mean a lot of things."

I look at her for a few seconds, trying to decide if there's some joke or deeper meaning I'm missing.

"Either way, I don't want to keep him."

Even as I say it, I have to wonder if I'm being totally honest with Mrs. Livingston. The afternoon spent at the park with Shane wasn't what I initially expected it to be. Not at all. I thought he was going to complain the entire time or do the absolute minimum just to get out of the situation. It took him some time to warm up and get started, and he did his fair share of complaining about what he had to clean up, but I'm not going to blame him for that. One disgusting used condom warranted complaints, and he had to deal with far more than that. The rest of the time, he actually seemed engaged with the project – almost happy to be there and be a part of it. As we left, he mentioned to one of the organizers that someone should connect with the local police department and find officers who were willing to patrol the area to cut down on the unsavory behavior going on at the park. He didn't go quite so far as to volunteer to be that person, but just the fact that he had the thought impressed me.

My mind keeps going back to how his arms felt wrapped around my waist, though. Remembering those few seconds of connection between our bodies makes my heart flutter in a way I won’t admit to myself, much less to anyone else.

Two weeks later…

 

"I don't understand," Shane says. "I thought I've been doing park cleanups, and meeting with kids, and all that because giving back to the community is your approach to fixing my image."

"It's part of the approach for fixing your image," I say.

"And the other part is going to some ridiculous gala?"

"Yes."

"I hate those things. Besides, if I'm supposed to be keeping in touch with the fans, why would I go to something that seems like the complete opposite of connecting with them?"

"Spending time with fans and doing good for the community is an important step in creating the image you want, but no one is going to believe that's your real lifestyle. Everyone knows you make an exorbitant amount of money, Shane."

"You really like using that word when you talk about my money, don't you?"

"You have to realize you make more – in a year – than the people we met at the park do in their lifetime."

"I'm aware."

"So, you probably realize it's not going to fool anyone to pretend you suddenly live a simple life. If you go down that route, you're only going to lose more credibility. Going to the gala shows that you’re still living a normal life – for you. It's another way to let the public know that you’re not going to let what people say about you, especially Vanessa, control your life or make you hide.”

"Fine," he says. "I'll go. But only under one condition."

I sigh.

"What's that?" I ask.

"You come with me as my date," he says simply.

That definitely wasn’t what I was expecting.

"Your date?" I ask.

"Yes. I'll go to the gala if you come as my date."

"Why would I go as your date? I'm your PR rep."

"I know that," he says. "But not everyone else does. You've done a good job of staying in the wings. I can't just go to an event like that by myself. That will make me look really bad. Trust me, I know how the entitled, snobby people at events like this look at, and judge, each other."

"Mostly because you are one of those entitled, snobby people?" I ask.

"Yes," he says.

"Well, at least you’re honest with yourself."

"I am. I need to have a date to go to a fundraising gala. That's just the way it is. Inviting a real date, though, is a sure-fire way to get myself in trouble. Besides, having you there with me means you'll always be able to tell me what I'm supposed to be saying or doing. And I know how much you love doing that."

"So, you're really asking me to go as your babysitter?"

"That's how you described yourself before, isn't it?"

"Still. It's just so flattering. I get your point, though. But I can't go to an event like that. I don't have anything to wear."

"So, go buy yourself a dress. While you're at it, why don't you get some new clothes? No offense or anything, but your wardrobe doesn't exactly fit your new position. You're going to need a few pieces if you're going to keep doing press conferences and other publicity events with me."

"I can't afford to do that," I say. "I don't get my bonus until the season starts, and my raise isn’t enough to go and splurge on a new wardrobe."

"Put it on your expense account," he says. "It is technically a business expense."

"I don't have an expense account," I say, looking back at my computer.

I've spent more time staring at this screen in the last month than the rest of the time I've had the computer combined.

"You do now," he says.

I look up at Shane and see he's holding a credit card between two fingers. I shake my head.

"I can't let you buy me clothes," I say.

"Why not?"

"Several reasons, but to start, it’s unprofessional and unethical."

"No, it's not. Don't think of it as me buying you clothes personally. All I'm doing is investing in your future success. You can't be expected to shape my image if you can't integrate yourself into my life. That requires a certain image, too. Besides, you're an adult now, Julie. You don't have to look like that nerdy kid curled up in her daddy's chair reading a book anymore."

"You remember that?" I ask, stunned by the revelation.

"Who could forget a chair that ugly?" Shane says. He pushes the card toward me again. "Come on, take it. Don’t make me beg. Buy a dress for the gala, and a few outfits for work and life. Have fun. Think of it as a perk of being the only PR rep in the entire city badass enough to take me on and still be around a month later."

I look at the card. He's right. Reluctantly, I reach out and take the card from his hand.

Let's 'Pretty Woman' it up.

"Thank you," I say.

"Good. You’re welcome. So, what time should I pick you up for the gala? I haven't used the limo for a while. Seth would probably like to hear from me."

"That won't be necessary," I say. "I think it would be better if we just met at the hotel where the organization is hosting the gala. It will give me a chance to get the lay of the land, and maybe come up with a few strategies before you get there."

That's a lie, but I don't want to tell him I'd rather not be stuck with him as my only form of transportation home. Shane's reluctant, but finally, he agrees. We finalize our plans, and I send him on his way. I have some shopping to do.

Maybe I should call Bindi.

 

The next day…

 

"Why do you think he called us in?" Shane asks.

I glance over at my former desk and notice it's been occupied by a new employee – a young woman around my age. She immediately strikes me as Mr. Slidell’s type. Shane and I are settled in chairs in the waiting area outside of Mr. Slidell's office. It feels strange to be at this vantage point, and I find myself noticing things about the office I haven't before.

"I don't know," I say. "I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. He left me a voicemail asking both of us to come in this morning, but he didn't say what it was about. I'm guessing he wants to check in and find out what we're planning for the rest of summer. Unless…"

My voice trails off as I decide not to finish the sentence.

"Unless?"

"Unless something else has happened."

"You think Vanessa might be pulling something else?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard anything, and I've followed the situation pretty closely. Mr. Slidell seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to this kind of thing, though. It's possible he knows something nobody else does yet."

A few moments later, the new secretary walks up to us.

"Mr. Slidell will see you now."

"Thanks," I say, climbing to my feet and following her into the office.

I'm hoping I'm about to be praised for how well I'm working with Shane, but the look on Mr. Slidell's face when I walk into his office dashes those aspirations. He gestures for us to sit, and we do.

"Is there a problem?" Shane asks when the silence stretches a few seconds too long.

"Why didn't you tell me that the two of you have a history?"

"A history?" I ask. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"It's come to my attention the two of you have known each other for years. I consider that a conflict of interest that I should have been informed of."

Panic rushes through me, and I feel my face flush. Not too long ago, I walked into this office thinking I was about to be fired because of how I talked to Shane, only to end up with him as my client. Now I'm right back in the same place – scared again. Only this time, it's because he thinks there's something unethical going on between us.

And I haven't even gone shopping yet.

"It’s nothing like that," I say. "I assure you."

"So, the two of you didn't know each other before you met here?" Mr. Slidell asks.

"Well," I say. "That's not exactly accurate, either."

"Then what is it?"

"Julie and I met more than ten years ago," Shane interjects. "We come from the same town in Virginia, and I went to school with her brother."

I cringe when he says it, but I can't think about that now. We need to convince Mr. Slidell nothing is going on between us, or everything I've worked so hard for could go up in flames.

"We only met one time," I tell Mr. Slidell, leaning toward him imploringly. "It was extremely brief. I don't even know if we exchanged words back then. I hadn’t seen or heard from him until we met again here. The past doesn't impact our professional relationship whatsoever."

Mr. Slidell looks at both of us for several long seconds, before finally nodding.

"Good. I'm relieved to hear that. Frankly, I've been impressed with how things are progressing so far, and very optimistic about the success of the project. And Shane, from what I hear from the coach and the owners, team morale is going up, your playing has improved, and the opinion of fans seems to be starting to shift as well."

Now he gives us the compliments. The panic had to come first.

"Thank you," I say. "We have some plans already in place for the next stage, and we're looking forward to seeing the results."

When the meeting is over, I walk out on legs that feel reminiscent of the time I got four teeth pulled and caps put in when I was fifteen. Now I find myself wishing I had some anesthesia.

I don't know if my heart can take the rest of the summer.

 

One week later…

 

The dark, anonymous feeling of the hotel bar always promotes unfortunate decision making. You're one person before you step in, but as soon as you're absorbed in the shadows, hushed whispers, and generic music, you become someone else – someone willing to do things your normal self would be ashamed of.

I purposely got to the hotel well before I needed to, but now that I have finished my initial sweep, I have nothing to do before meeting up with Shane in half an hour. My only real option, other than lingering awkwardly in the lobby, is to hover awkwardly in the bar. I take a deep breath and head toward a seat at the black wooden bar that curves along one wall. The shape of the bar reminds me of a snake slithering away from the edge of the empty dance floor.

"Can I get you something?" the bartender asks, placing a napkin in front of me in anticipation of a drink.

I scan the rows of bottles reflected from the bar behind him.

"Balvenie, neat," I say.

The bartender looks me up and down as if evaluating my worthiness. He mindlessly wipes an old-fashioned glass with a white cloth, his movement slowing as he gazes at me.

"With Diet Coke?" he asked, barely concealing the condescending tone behind the words.

I narrow my eyes and tilt my head to look directly into his face.

"Not necessary.”

What a jerk.

This style of whisky reminds me of my father. He always had a bottle tucked away on the bookshelf in the corner of the house's one spare bedroom. He called the corner his library, which always made us laugh considering the majority of the room was Mom’s sewing room. That bottle was a prized possession for him. Daddy rarely drank, but a glass of his Balvenie was a special treat when he was sitting in his big green chair reading, or visiting with friends. More often than not, he would pour his glass, hold it up to the light so I could see the color, and remind me that any bartender worth his salt could tell you the difference between whiskey with an 'e' and whisky without an 'e'. I’m sure, buried in there somewhere, was a life lesson he was trying to relay in his own fatherly fashion.

Finally, the bartender nods once and turns toward the bottles. He selects the 3/4 filled bottle and pours the amber liquid into the glass he holds. Sitting in front of me, he steps back and watches me take my first sip. The rich, creamy liquor feels warm as it rolls across my tongue, sliding languidly down my throat. I relax with the luxurious feeling, appreciating each note in the drink.

After appraising how I swirled the glass and watching me take another sip, the bartender nods again and turns away. I watch him reach for another glass sitting on a rubber drying mat beside the sink. I don't even know if it's actually wet, but he dries it anyway. Apparently, this bartender bobblehead takes his responsibilities very seriously.

Moving around in my seat to turn my gaze to the dance floor, I notice another figure sitting on the opposite side of the bar. He's staring down at a pistachio in his hand like he's pondering the mysteries of the universe. I sigh. It's Shane. He's not supposed to be here yet, but there he is, a drink by his side. This doesn't strike me as a great way to start a night intended to further separate him from his partying image. At the same time, though, he's not being loud, and the drink by his side looks almost untouched. It makes me curious about what he's doing.

I take another slow sip of my drink while watching him. I'm relying on the dark of the bar to conceal my staring, though I realize that if I can see him this clearly, he can likely see me just as well. Nothing seems amiss, and I wonder if he might have actually made a brilliant decision coming here, underscoring that he's living a totally normal life before he even enters the gala. A moment later, however, a woman in a dress that appears to be made of lime green and teal streamers steps in front of Shane, blocking my line of sight as she slams her hand down on the bar, cocking one hip to the side.

Oh, perfect.

"Hiya, gorgeous."

The woman's voice rises above the music thumping around me, and I wonder just how many girly cocktails she slammed back before taking that walk up to Shane.

"Hello," Shane responds.

He doesn't sound thrilled about this woman's appearance beside him, but it doesn't appear to dissuade her.

"What are you doing here all alone?"

She appears to be at least 15 years older than him, and her peroxide blonde hair clashes with her leathered skin. As she leans in closer to him, Shane leans back. He's obviously cognizant that he is in public with many eyes on him, waiting to see his next move. It seems to have inspired him to not only rebuke the woman but also maneuver himself as far away from the rabid fangirl as possible without launching himself onto the dance floor. I can't help but be a little proud of him, but I’m mostly concerned about his ability to manage the rest of this situation tastefully. I look down into my glass, let the final sip of whisky glide down my throat, and step off my stool. Time to rescue the broken bird again.