We both watched her as she struggled to answer . . . or not to answer. Shaking her head, she picked up the envelope and shoved it in her purse. “Of all fucking days, it had to be today.” I scowled. What did that mean?
She rounded the desk, and bent down so her intense line of sight met Marcus.’ In a calm but certain voice, she growled, “If you ever call me a whore or the daughter of a whore or anything affiliated with the word whore, ever again, I will fire you.” Looking at me just as angrily, she snapped, “You deal with this. We made that decision about February together. You own half of his anger.” Then she walked out, slamming the office door behind her.
“You really know how to make the work environment pleasant,” I chirped. “Thanks.”
“You really gave the okay for the February jumps?” he asked, ignoring me.
I shrugged unapologetically before trying to explain. “Even if we can only get one hundred jumps and sell the pictures and videos, we would at least cover your salary plus Clara’s and mine. Otherwise, we’re tossing money out the window. I know it’s your month off, and I know you can’t stand her, but sometimes, sometimes,” I reiterated, “she does have a valid point and good ideas.”
Marcus furrowed his brows. “Is that Paul the business owner talking, or Paul the guy that wants to fuck her talking?”
Well, shit. I was shocked. He’d never spoken to me like that, with such animosity. And because I was young and arrogant and insensitive, I replied, “That’s Paul, your fucking boss, talking.”
He nodded a few times, letting me know he got what I was saying—loud and clear—before he marched out the office, slamming it as well.
After my last jump, I closed up the office. Marcus and Clara never returned after their argument, and I busted ass all afternoon between greeting clients, handling payments, and diving. After I closed the office for the evening, I drove straight to the closest bar with every intention of getting hammered. The constant animosity between Clara and Marcus was starting to weigh on me. If I backed Clara, Marcus thought it was only because I wanted to have sex with her. If I backed Marcus, I’d piss Clara off and for some reason, I really didn’t want to piss her off. Not anymore, anyway. I just wanted some peace. What I needed was a few stiff drinks to help me forget. Finding some company for the night wouldn’t hurt either. At that time, I knew I was attracted to Clara. I knew I wanted her. But I didn’t want to want her. She wasn’t my type. At all. She was bossy and high-handed; always a know-it-all. I liked my women easy. And I didn’t mean in the sexual way . . . although, sometimes that’s all a man really wants when he’s young and single. I meant easy in the laid-back sense. Easy in the knew when to let shit go sense. Clara wasn’t easy. In any sense of the word. She was a ballbuster. Other than her being nothing like my ideal woman, there was also the matter of my freedom. It was of the utmost importance to me. Settling down was as foreign to me as another planet. I was working hard to stay put; to be satisfied by my dives, hoping it would douse the need I felt to go. To move. But I knew myself well. That need couldn’t be sated. Not permanently, anyway. And I’d learned early on, after breaking a few hearts, that you don’t make promises you can’t keep. So I started laying down the terms early on. I walked into any situation with one hundred percent honesty. I told them two things.
I don’t do happily ever after.
I don’t do babies and white picket fences.
Clara wasn’t the kind of woman for that. Truth was, no woman was truly going to go for that. But they were stubborn. They all agreed to my terms, understanding where I stood. But they all believed, deep inside, that somehow they could change me; that their love would turn me into a different man. And when it ended, they hated me. But when I left, I didn’t feel bad because I’d told them the truth.
So, no. Clara was not my type.
I knew that.
But that didn’t change me wanting her.
And on that night, I needed a release. I needed something to be easy, or rather . . . someone. When I walked into the bar, it was already crowded. A huge group of loud men surrounded the pool table and dartboards. All the booths were full. And as luck would have it, right away I spotted just who that someone to give me my release would be. I slid on a barstool beside her and ordered a straight shot of bourbon. She was a brunette with brown eyes, and she wore too much makeup. It didn’t take long to figure her out. Her name was Mandy and she’d just broken up with her boyfriend.
Easy.
An hour later, her hand was rubbing my thigh. An hour after that, I was signaling the bartender for our check. “I’ll take the check, Rick,” I called.
“Rick,” one of the waitresses yelled as he was about to answer me. “She wants another. I told her she was cut off, but she asked for the manager.”