Nothing of any great interest had happened after our sexcapades in my new car. We went back to see Mitch at the dealership, who gave our skewed clothing dubious looks. He visibly relaxed after I told him I’d be buying the vehicle. Vaughan had gone quiet, but then so had I.
We went to work. And when we got back to his house exhausted after a long night, we went to sleep, together in the same bed.
But back to today.
Brett Chen, the reporter, lounged against his car parked opposite my place of work. He pulled out his Canon and started snapping photos of Vaughan and me as we were walking inside.
“Talk to me, Lydia,” he yelled from across the street. “I’ve got a big-name magazine taking the story. Nationwide distribution. A lot of money.”
“Asshole,” I muttered, keeping my sunglasses on and my face down.
“Time to give Officer Andy a call,” said Vaughan. “Get rid of this guy.”
“I’m not sure legally there’s much he can do. Anyway, the reporter’s not going to get what he wants,” I said without slowing down. “Let karma take care of him for profiting from people’s heartbreak and misery. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
“This is the third time he’s been here in almost as many days. Taking your picture without your permission. The idiot’s practically stalking you, babe.”
I shrugged, reached out and gave his fingers a squeeze. We stepped into the bar and I headed straight for a small table at the back. Poor Betsy, the Delaneys’ real estate receptionist, did not look like a happy girl. Boo-hoo.
“I’ve been waiting for you for nearly twenty minutes.” She sniffed, pushing back a half-drunk cup of coffee and rising out of her seat. “The brew here is godawful. Are the papers all correctly signed? I don’t want to have to come down here again just because you can’t read.”
God, what a bitch. The papers were signed, all right, but she could figure that out for herself.
In lieu of conversation, I tossed the large envelope containing the Delaneys’ settlement contract her way. Betsy dived for it. making a weird gasping noise. Indignation burned bright in her beady little eyes. Before she could rip into me for lack of care or whatever, I got the hell away from her. I had things to do. It was time to make over my life. Minus the bullshit this time.
Saturday was a big day. At only twenty past twelve, most of the tables were already filled. I called out greetings to Rosie and Masa on the restaurant floor, Eric behind the bar, and Nell and Boyd busy at work in the kitchen. Then I continued on my way to the back office.
The big blond bear, aka Joe, sat in front of the computer, engrossed in whatever was on the screen.
“Hi,” I said, dumping my handbag in the corner. “Nell wanted me to start on the bookkeeping.”
Startled eyes glanced up at me and his fingers froze on the keys. “Ah, hey, Lydia.”
“Are you working today too?” Three people behind the bar seemed excessive but whatever.
“No,” he said. “I just needed to use the computer. Mine’s acting up. Be out of here in a minute.”
“No problem. I’ll go grab a cup of coffee.”
The deer-caught-in-headlights look faded, transforming into something else. He cleared his throat, gaze returning to me every few seconds. Whatever was on that screen, Joe did not want it to be seen. Probably porn.
“Would you like one?” I asked, taking a step toward the table.
His whole body tensed as if he was preparing to jump up and cover whatever it was. “One what?”
“Coffee.”
“No,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Okay.” I gave him a brief smile, strolling toward the door. “Back in a minute.”
His chin jerked, eyes stuck to me like I might vault over the desk and launch a violent invasion of his online privacy at any moment.
Very strange.
When I came back with my coffee, Joe had disappeared out the back door. Nell had left a list detailing what kinds of expenses belonged in which category. Beyond that, it was pretty basic. I worked away at the piles of receipts, banking records, and invoices. Inputting all of the information—business name, items in question, their price, etc. Gradually, the backlog began to dwindle.
The best part of doing this particular job (which no one else wanted to do) were the excellent service and gastronomical benefits. Rosie or Masa regularly delivered coffees, bottles of sparkling water, a delectable Vietnamese-style chicken salad for lunch, and an amazingly good steak with a baked potato and all the trimmings for dinner. I had no idea what they did to the cow to make the meat so tender. Daily massages. Weekly pedicures. Whatever it was, it worked. Best steak ever.
“How’s it going?” Nell collapsed into the chair opposite my desk, face still pale and shadows beneath her eyes. She looked only marginally better than the other day.
“I’m slowly beating the accounts into submission. Should you be home in bed?”
“Probably.” She cracked the lid on a bottle of apple juice and gulped some down, then set it on the table. “I’m heading home soon.”
“Good.” And here came the nervy part. “Nell…”