“I know you,” he cut me off.
Exasperation like I didn’t know gripped my chest. “You don’t know me. You’ve never tried to know me, so don’t give me that,” I snapped and immediately felt guilty for some stupid reason. “I told you I was quitting, and you didn’t give a shit. I don’t know why you care now, but it doesn’t matter. This work relationship between you and me is done, and that was all we had to begin with. Find someone else, because I’m not going back to work for you. That’s the end of the story.”
Aiden didn’t blink, didn’t inhale or exhale; he didn’t even twitch. His gaze was locked on me like his pupils were all-knowing lasers capable of emotional manipulation. For the longest moment in time, there wasn’t a single sound in my tiny apartment. Then abruptly, in a tone that was completely Aiden, as if he hadn’t just heard a single word that came out of my mouth, he said, “I don’t want someone new. I want you.”
I suddenly wished I could have recorded his comeback so I could sell it on the Internet to the hundreds of girls who filled his inbox every week with offers of dates, blow jobs, companionship, and sex.
But I was too busy getting more and more aggravated by the second to do so.
Where the hell was he getting the nerve to say that to me?
“Maybe—and I just want you to think about it for the future—you should consider what other factors are important in employee retention. You know, like making people feel appreciated, giving them a reason to stay loyal to you. It isn’t just about a paycheck,” I replied as gently as I could, even though I knew damn well he didn’t exactly deserve to get handled with kid gloves. “You’ll find someone. It’s just not going to be me.”
His brown eyes sharpened and left an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I’ll pay you more.”
“Listen to me. This isn’t about money, for freaking sake.”
About a thousand different thoughts seemed to go through his head in that instant as one of his cheeks pulled back into what seemed like half a grimace.
I had no idea what he was thinking, and I sighed. How did we get to this point? Six weeks ago, I couldn’t get him to tell me ‘Hello.’ Now, he was at my apartment, sitting at my hand-me-down dining room table, asking me to work for him again after I’d walked out.
It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone.
His chin tipped back in a determined gesture I was too familiar with. “My visa expires next year,” he ground out.
And… I shut my mouth.
A few months ago, I remembered opening his mail, and seeing something about his visa in an official-looking letter. A letter that I thought he might have gotten again right before I quit, when I’d told him he needed to check the things I’d left on his desk.
I didn’t get how a visa could be used as an excuse for being a jerk.
“Okay. Did you already send the paperwork to renew it?” The words had no sooner come out of my mouth than I was asking myself what the hell I was doing. This wasn’t my business. He’d made it not my business.
But I still wasn’t expecting it when he said, “No.”
I didn’t understand. “Why not?” Damn it! What the hell was I doing asking questions? I scolded myself.
“It’s a work visa,” his words were slow, like I was mentally impaired or something.
I still didn’t get what the problem was.
“It’s subjective to me playing for the Three Hundreds.”
I blinked at him, thinking maybe he’d taken one too many hits to the skull in his career. “I don’t get what the problem is.”
Before I could ask him why he was worried about his visa when any team he signed with would help him get a new one, he cleared his throat. “I don’t want to go back to Canada. I like it here.”
This was the same Winnipeg native that had only once gone back to his motherland in all the time we’d worked together. I’d grown up in El Paso, but I didn’t go ‘home’ much either because nothing really felt like home any more. I hadn’t had a place that made me feel safe or loved or warm, or any of the feelings I figured could be associated with what ‘home’ should feel like.
I glanced at the wall to the side of his head, waiting for the next revelation to help make sense of what he was saying. “I’m still not understanding what the issue here is.”
With a deep sigh, he propped his chin on his hand, and he finally explained. “If I’m not on a team, I can’t stay here.”
Why wouldn’t he be playing? Was his foot bothering him? I wanted to ask him but didn’t. “Okay… isn’t there some other kind of visa you can apply for?”
“I don’t want to get another visa.”
I blew out a breath and shut the refrigerator door, my fingers instantly going up to my glasses. “Okay. Go talk to an immigration lawyer. I’m sure one of them can help you get your permanent residency.” I chewed on my cheek for a second before adding, “You have money to get it worked on, and that’s a lot better than most people have it.” Then an idea entered my head, and before I thought twice about suggesting it, or talked myself out of not saying anything because I wasn’t feeling particularly friendly, I blurted it out. “Or just find an American citizen to marry you.”
His gaze had drifted to the ceiling at some point, but in that moment, he shifted it to scrutinize me. Those broad features were even and smooth, and not even remotely close to a scowl.
“Find someone you like, date them for a little bit or something, and then ask them to marry you. You can always get divorced afterward.” I paused and thought about a distant cousin of Diana’s. “There’s also people out there who would do it if you paid them enough, but that’s kind of tricky because I’m pretty sure it’s a felony to try to get your papers fixed by marrying someone for that reason. It’s something to think about.”
I blinked, noticing his expression had gone from scrutinizing to contemplating. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful. This weird sensation crept over my neck. Weird, weird, weird, telling me something was off, telling me I should probably get out of his line of view. I took a step back and eyed him. “What is it?”
Nothing in this world could have prepared me for what came out of his mouth next.
“Marry me.”
“What?” It came out of my mouth as surprised and rude as I imagined it did, I was positive of it.
He was on drugs. He was seriously on fucking drugs.
“Marry me,” he repeated himself, like I hadn’t heard him the first time.
I leaned back against the kitchen counter, torn between being weak from shock and dumbfounded from how ridiculous his statement was, and settled for just staring blankly in the general direction of his granite-like face. “You’re on dope, aren’t you?”
“No.” The usually taut corners of Aiden’s mouth relaxed a fraction of an inch; the tension in his body diminishing just a tiny amount, but it was enough for me to notice. “You can help me get my residency.”
What in the hell was going on with him? Maybe it was brain damage after all. I’d seen some of the guys he went up against, how could he have gotten off scot-free after so many years? “Why would I do that?” I gaped. “Why would I even want to do that?”
That strong jaw seemed to clench.
“I don’t want to work for you, much less marry you to help you get your papers fixed.” An idea rang through my brain, and I almost threw my hands up in joy at the brilliance behind it. “Marry someone who can do all your assistant stuff, too. It makes perfect sense.”
He’d started nodding when I brought up the assistant idea, but the emotion in his eyes was a little disturbing. He looked way too determined, too at peace with whatever crazy crap was going on in his big head. “It’s perfect,” he agreed. “You can do it.”
I choked. As badly as I wanted to say something—to argue with him or just tell him he’d lost his mind—nothing managed to come out of my mouth. I was flabbergasted. Fucking flabbergasted.
Aiden was on crack.
“Are you insane? Did you drop a barbell on your neck bench pressing?”