By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy Page 18

  Charming: It’s safe to talk to HR. I wouldn’t stop you from doing that.

  I gave up trying to text through still-frozen fingers and dialed.

  “Ally.” The way he said my name had my lady parts clenching. “Where are you? Can we talk? It doesn’t have to be alone. I can have an HR rep—”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded. The woman next to me carefully studying the Bible glared at me.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” he said in my ear.

  “Your office door was locked, Dom,” I pointed out at a more modulated volume.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Your office door was locked, and it was well after hours. You didn’t lure me there, you idiot. I was dropping off files, and I used the key Greta keeps in her desk.”

  “My behavior was unconscionable,” he said, his voice low and rough around the edges.

  “Oh, please,” I scoffed. “You should see what I get up to with a vibrator on Saturday nights.”

  “Ally.” He bit out my name like he was in physical pain.

  The guy in the lemon yellow ski jacket texting on his phone like it was a full-time job shot me an interested look.

  “Not gonna happen, buddy,” I told him.

  He went back to texting, and now I worried he was doing one of those live-tweet things. Hey Twitter, I’m sitting at a coffee shop minding my own business when the chick next to me starts talking about vibrators…

  “What?” Dom asked.

  “Not you. Well, also you. I’m not trying to harass you, Dom. My point is that everyone acts unconscionably on their own time. I just happened to barge into your time. You didn’t harass me. You didn’t assault me. You rejected me.”

  “I think you’re missing the bigger picture,” he said dryly.

  “Yeah, well, I think you missed the boat. You had a chance to get this out of your system, and you said no.”

  “I’m your boss. And you’re being really stubborn about quitting.”

  “At this point, I don’t really give a flying fuckcicle, Dominic.”

  Bible study lady cleared her throat in a judgey kind of way and nodded her head toward the teenagers across from her.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed to them. “Look, you had your chance. You made it crystal clear that you have no desire to… get coffee with me,” I said to Dominic.

  “Coffee?”

  “It’s a euphemism. There’s Bible studying happening here,” I hissed into the phone. “Deal with it.”

  “Fine. I believe I made it clear that I’ve had nothing but desire to get into your fucking pants, Ally,” he growled.

  “Yeah, yeah. But you’re not going to act on it, blah blah blah. And I’m not going to throw myself at you. You didn’t harass me. I didn’t harass you. As of this second, we have nothing to talk about ever again.”

  “So, you’re just going to avoid me for the rest of your life?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Because I deserve better. I deserve a guy who isn’t appalled at being physically attracted to me.”

  “That’s not fair—”

  “Shut up, Charming. Here’s what we’re going to do moving forward. Absolutely nothing. We will be polite at work. We won’t text or email or chat or spar or fight. We won’t ever be alone. We will never get coffee.”

  “Are you afraid of me, Ally?”

  “I’m afraid that if I’m in a room alone with you, I won’t be able to control myself.”

  I heard the intake of breath on his end and wondered if he was crushing the phone in his hand.

  Bible study lady was now discussing a psalm at full volume, trying to drown me out.

  “Control yourself?” Dominic’s tone was deceptively neutral. But I knew, I knew he was anything but.

  “Yeah, Dom. I’m afraid I might walk right up to you and break your damn nose.”

  His laugh was dry, humorless. “You’re a hell of a woman, Ally.”

  “You’re damn right I am. And you’re the dumbass who missed out.”

  “I am,” he agreed.

  But I didn’t want his pity agreement. I wanted to pretend he never existed. “Great. Now that we have that settled. Get off my phone.”

  30

  Ally

  Friday morning, I peeked into the payroll department, making sure the summons wasn’t some kind of Dominic trap to get me to talk to him.

  A never-ending loop of every mixed message and rejection from the man played in my head.

  It should have been enough to overpower any carnal desire. But every time I thought about the man fisting his cock and saying my name, I went a little weak in the knees.

  I chalked it up to cheese hormone withdrawals and doubled down on my decision.

  There was officially no way in hell that I was going to a) throw myself at any man too dumb or stubborn to enjoy it or b) become some sexual-harassing subordinate. I needed this job. I needed this paycheck. I did not need my boss lusting after me and then making me feel like a fool.

  I was going to buckle down, earn my paycheck, and dig my way out of the massive debt I’d managed to accumulate.

  All I had to do was get through the rest of this day and I’d be boss-free for the entire weekend. I had two bartending shifts, a Saturday night catering gig, and a Sunday morning dance class. Plus hours of home renovation glory to keep me occupied this weekend. I would come in Monday detoxed from Dom and cheese and back on track.

  Best of all, today was payday. I might be able to buy some actual groceries.

  “Hi, I’m Ally Morales,” I said, introducing myself to the woman at the first desk. “I had a message to come in this morning.”

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. Uh-oh.

  “Ally, I’m afraid I have bad news. There was a mix-up with your direct deposit, and it’s going to take until Monday to sort out.”

  My ears turned on their whomp whomp whomp filter as the woman in Marc Jacobs explained about transposed numbers on the routing number.

  “So what does this mean?” I asked, blinking out of my stupor.

  “It means your paycheck won’t be deposited until Monday.”

  In my head, I ran through every swear word I knew. Even some I wasn’t sure about.

  “I can take a check. Or cash.” Or one of those sparkling bracelets she was wearing that jangled when she moved her hand.

  Desperation sweat steamed up my armpits. Just so you know, folks, Dollar Store deodorant does not cut it in stressful situations.

  Marc Jacobs Lady flashed me another sympathetic look. “There’s nothing I can do at this point. You’ll just have to wait until Monday.”

  Wait until Monday.

  I had stretched the nursing home’s grace period as far as it would go without snapping it like a rubber band. Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. the late fees plus a good faith payment had to be made. I had to cough up $5,327.94. Or else.

  I turned and walked out without another word. Into a hallway with beautiful people in beautiful clothes who had never been hungry, never had to choose between food and heat. Or food and their father’s well-being.

  It was amazing how many people didn’t know what real desperation felt like. It was incredible that this was the first time in my thirty-nine years that I was feeling it. I’d had a life. A father who loved me. A career. Savings. God. That felt like ages ago rather than six short months.

  I had almost $2,000 squirreled away. My paycheck was supposed to cover the rest.

  What was I going to do between now and tomorrow to come up with more than $3,000 in less than twenty-four hours?

  Maybe I could throw myself on Front Desk Deena’s mercy and beg for more time?

  On cue, my cell phone rang. It was the nursing home’s office calling. Panic tickled at my throat.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Morales.” Deena’s wicked witch of New Jersey voice turned my blood to ice. “I was just calling to see if I needed to instruct the nursing staff to start p
acking your father’s possessions today.” She sounded downright cheerful.

  “That won’t be necessary.” I choked out the words.

  “Well, isn’t that good news?” she said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t believe me. “If it’s more convenient for you, I’d be happy to accept your check today.”

  I gulped. “Tomorrow is good.” I needed every second between now and then.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at nine sharp,” Deena said. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard her cackle just before she hung up.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Reeling, blinded by unshed tears, I started to move.

  I cut the corner short and bounced off a hard, vested chest like a pinball. But he didn’t catch me. It was the other man next to him that steadied me.

  “Ally, right? Are you okay?” he asked. Christian James. Designer. Dimples. I bet he wouldn’t reject me if I handed over my panties. My brain was a roller coaster of confusion and then fear. I’d failed. Dad was going to lose his bed because of me.

  “Fine,” I lied, the word coming out like I was being strangled. Choking on my own failure. My neck felt hot and itchy.

  “Ally, what’s wrong?” Dominic was wrestling me out of Christian’s gentle grip.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. Label’s classy walls were closing in on me. Dominic’s blue, concerned eyes.

  I wrenched free from him. “Nothing,” I wheezed. He reached for me again, and I shook my head before fleeing for the door to the stairs.

  Afraid he’d follow me, I went up instead of down at a run. By the time I hit the roof and burst through the door into the biting cold, I was on fumes. Mentally, emotionally, physically. This was it. Rock bottom. If rock bottom happened on top of a skyscraper in Midtown in February.

  I dragged in an icy breath and let it out in a silvery cloud. Again and again until the tightness in my chest started to loosen.

  “Panic attack. Not heart attack,” I whispered to myself as I plastered myself against the wall and waited for it to pass.

  There was no room for panic. No time to lament. I needed a solution. I needed help.

  I gave it another minute, hoping for divine inspiration from the goddess of skyscraper meltdowns. When none came, I did the next best thing. I dragged my phone out and dialed Faith.

  My best friend’s face popped up on my screen, an eye mask sitting crookedly on her forehead.

  “’Sup?” she rasped. Her natural jet-black hair was platinum blonde with subtle streaks of violet shoved up into a lopsided knot.

  “Late night?” I wheezed.

  “I own forty percent of a strip club. What do you think?”

  Ladies and Gentlemen was an equal-opportunity Miami-themed strip club with men, women, and a troupe of talented drag queens.

  It was fabulous and even classy in a debauched, naked kind of way.

  “Tonight’s amateur night, right?”

  She sat up in bed, bobbling the phone. I stared up at her ceiling for a few seconds and caught an accidental nip slip out of her hot pink negligee because of course my best friend slept in lingerie.

  “Are you coming?” she shrieked, picking the phone back up.

  “How much did you say I can make?” I asked. Faith had been trying to convince me to come in on amateur night since I came back home.

  “All participants get $100 plus two free drinks. Then the top three contenders split the prize money. You, with your ass-shaking abilities, are a shoo-in for first place, even without me as a judge. That’s gonna be $2,500 easy. Plus tips.”

  She had me at free drinks. And $2,500.

  I wanted to cry. And all I had to do was shake my ass. Oh, yeah, and show a club full of strangers my boobs. How was this my life?

  “I don’t have to do any private dances or anything, right?” I clarified.

  “Nope. Not unless you want to.”

  “Okay,” I said, closing my eyes.

  Ask her for the money. Ask her. Just say the words. Please help me, Faith.

  But I’d made promises. And right now, those unbroken promises were the only thing I’d done right.

  “You must need cash bad,” she observed. She picked up an open can of soda on her nightstand and sipped through a Twizzler. Faith was one of those annoying people whose metabolism sped up in her thirties.

  “Things are getting a little tight,” I said lamely.

  “Seriously, babe. If you need money—”

  “I’m fine. Everything is fine. What time should I be there?”

  She shot me an incredulous look.

  “I’m serious,” I insisted. “It’ll be fun.” Lies. So many dirty, little lies.

  “Eleven.”

  Silver lining. At least I could squeeze in a few hours on the bar at Rooster’s before my humiliation. Every dollar counted now.

  “What should I wear?” It came out as a squeak, and I cleared my throat.

  “Oh, honey. I’ve got you covered. Or uncovered. Wink!” Faith grinned.

  My stomach lurched again. But I had no choice. I was out of options unless I wanted to realize my father’s worst fears. I’d made this mess, and I’d clean it up no matter what it took.

  “Okay.” I fortified myself with another cold breath. “I’ll see you at eleven.”

  “Can’t wait! You’re going to do great. Eleven p.m. backstage at Ladies and Gentlemen. Be there and ready to bare,” she sang.

  “Yeah. See you then,” I said and disconnected.

  I held the phone to my forehead in a lame attempt to ward off the headache that was starting to drill its way into my brain.

  I gave myself another thirty seconds of fear and misery, of cursing the universe for its stupid plan for me. Then I straightened my shoulders and marched toward the door.

  I would do what I had to. Just like my father had raising me. And someday, many, many, many years from now, I might look back and laugh at this disaster.

  31

  Ally

  Vance was a pale guy with a comfortable beer gut who dressed like a Miami Vice extra and talked like a Canadian Tony Soprano. He wore white pants and a red button-down with parrots and palm trees. A trio of gold chains tangled around his generous carpet of chest hair.

  “Water and coffee are free. First aid kit’s in the locker room in case you pinch yourself on the pole or get blisters from the shoes and whatnot,” he explained as he led me along a long, mirrored wall that reflected the pink and purple stage lights.

  The bass was thumping, and there was a woman on stage wrapped around the pole like a koala. “On amateur nights, I spring for bagels for all the gals. You get a locker with a combination lock. Rule is no girl leaves the building alone. We got a big, beefy security staff that doesn’t mind sendin’ a message to patrons. No touching the dancers or the servers or the bartenders.”

  I nodded grimly and pretended not to see the sea of men—and some women—who were crowded into booths and around round tables along the stage. All there to witness me giving up my last shred of dignity.

  “You get two drinks from the bar per shift,” Vance said, holding open an Employees Only door for me. “I wouldn’t advise drinkin’ ’em both at the same time since Esther makes ’em pretty damn strong. You might fall offa the pole, eh?”

  “Ha,” I managed.

  I followed his red-parroted shoulders down a long hallway.

  “Boss told me to bring you straight back when you got here,” he explained, tapping out a cursory knock before opening another door with a sign that said No Pants No Problem. “Special delivery, boss.”

  “Boss” was Faith Vigoda, my best friend since fifth grade. She’d always reminded me of a tall, black Gwen Stefani who couldn’t sing. But Faith didn’t need to sing. She’d been born with a genius business acumen.

  The summer before sixth grade, her lemonade stand made so much money she got permits and two part-time employees. She paid for college with cash earned by running an illegal term paper writing business for
other schools. After college, she went legit, diversifying into property rentals and finally the entertainment business.

  She’d been partner here for four years and had single-handedly doubled the club’s revenue.

  “I’m so excited you’re here,” she squealed, jumping up from behind her desk to grab me. She pulled me in for a hug that I desperately needed.

  “It’s so good to see you.” And despite the circumstances, it really was.

  “You’ve been a little busy lately,” she said, forgiving me. “How’s your dad? How’s his leg? Tell me about work.”

  I flopped down in a pink velvet wingback chair and filled her in on everything but the financial situation and Dominic Russo, painting a picture of a dutiful daughter and diligent employee.

  “None of that explains why you’re suddenly here for amateur night.”

  “Things are just a little tight right now. My first paycheck from the magazine was late, so I figured…” I shrugged and trailed off lamely.

  “Uh-huh. Well, we’ll definitely be talking about all the things you’re not saying after. But first let’s get you dressed. How do you feel about sexy cowgirl or professional cheerleader?”

  Nauseous.

  * * *

  “What do you think?” I asked, stepping carefully out of the dressing area on five-inch, white, patent leather, stiletto platforms.

  Faith was spinning slow circles in a salon chair parked in front of a kitschy makeup mirror while skimming profit reports. She stopped and put down the paperwork and made me do a twirl.

  This was not like Fairy Godfather Linus’s makeover. No. This particular transformation involved a checkered long-sleeve shirt with snaps knotted between my breasts, cheeky blue boy shorts that were already climbing their way up my ass, and sparkly blue pasties that I hoped no one else would see.

  “Don’t pick the wedgie. Wedgies get more tips,” she insisted when I tried to do exactly that.

  I sighed through gritted teeth and tried not to think about what I was going to be doing in about nine minutes. Gulp.