Fling
Page 12
Seven
Gabe It’s the Monday after New Year’s and I’m back at work. Four days since New Year’s Eve. Four days since I’ve seen Sandra. Four days to think about the fact that she didn’t look hurt when I pulled on my pants to leave. She simply slid under the covers on her bed and said, “Thanks for driving me home.”
What the fuck does that mean? Thanks for driving her home? I know she doesn’t have random sex, she can’t possibly—she was too nervous, she didn’t have any condoms on hand. She didn’t even ask me to come inside, for fuck’s sake. I had to invite myself in—after she shut the door in my face. So no, seducing men or having casual hookups, it’s not something Sandra does with regularity. So the casual goodbye stung, even though I was the one leaving. Even though I was the one who had no intentions of spending the night.
I toss the paper coffee cup I came to work with in the trash next to my desk and stand. I walk down to Sawyer’s office and note that Sandra’s not in yet as I pass her desk, located outside of Sawyer’s office. I shut the door anyway, the click causing Sawyer to look up from the monitor on his desk.
“Hey,” he says in greeting.
“Hey,” I return, walking over to snag a bottle of water from the mini-fridge located in a small built-in kitchenette area along the far wall of his office.
“You didn’t make it back to the party the other night,” Sawyer says, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on mine.
“Yeah, no shit,” I respond. “I spent some time with Sandra,” I add when he just stares at me.
“Jesus, Gabe. I told you she’s not that kind of girl.” He sighs at me, actually fucking sighs, and leans back in his chair.
“What kind of girl is that, Sawyer?” I ask, annoyed.
“Temporary. She’s not a temporary kind of girl.”
“Fuck off, Sawyer. She’s a grown woman. Besides, you told me to go for it.”
”No.” He’s shaking his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I said the opposite of ‘go for it.’ I think I used words like, ‘stay away from her’ and ‘employee.’”
“She’s your employee not mine,” I argue.
“You own thirty-five percent of this company, dumbass, that makes her your employee too.”
I shrug. “Then why’d you text me?” I ask, pulling my cell from my pocket and waving it in his direction.
“When did I text you?”
“New Year’s Eve,” I reply, not bothering to keep the implication that he’s an idiot out of my tone. We both pause then, frowning as Sawyer picks up his phone and I scroll back through mine. I find the text that he sent shortly after I dropped Sandra off. I’d still been on the landing outside her apartment, surprised that she hadn’t invited me in, when my phone had pinged to alert me of an incoming text. Finding it, I verify that I’m not crazy and that it did come from Sawyer, then read it aloud. “‘You lazy fuck, she’s not going to ask you in. Man up and invite yourself. Then take off your pants. See you Monday.’”
I look up at Sawyer as I finish speaking to find him shaking his head with a big stupid grin on his face. “God, that girl. That text was from Everly. I don’t even know how she got her hands on my phone.” He’s still smiling, though.
“Ahh.” I nod in understanding. “Speaking of Everly, she’s something. A little young,” I add pointedly, reminding him that he implied I was too old for Sandra.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m going to marry her, Gabe, not break her heart.”
I’d already figured as much. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at that girl. And I’ve been best friends with the guy for almost twenty years, so I’ve seen a lot of women come and go.
He glances at the closed door and back to me. “Look, Gabe, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sandra, I don’t want to know, but you need to stop this before she gets hurt.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, noncommittally. “Yeah,” I repeat, blowing out a breath. He’s probably right. Sandra seemed cool with whatever the other night was. I should leave it at that. She seems like the kind of girl who’ll be picking out baby names and planning happily-ever-afters and I don’t fucking need that. I don’t. I’m in the prime of my life, right? I’m good-looking. I’m loaded. I’ve got no responsibilities outside of work. My life is great.
So I open the door to Sawyer’s office intent on getting back to my own. Intent on calling any of a dozen women in my phone and scheduling something. Except Sandra’s at her desk. And Dave from marketing is at her desk too. And he’s smiling at her. Prick. I’m walking past when I hear him ask her if he’s picking her up at home on Friday or if they’re meeting at the office. I keep walking, tossing the now empty water bottle I snagged from Sawyer’s office into a recycling bin on the way to my office, and return a, “Good morning,” to my assistant as I pass him. I sit at my desk for a minute, drumming my fingers on the surface, before I snatch the handset of my desk phone and punch in the extension to Sandra’s desk. The digital screen on our company phone system announces all incoming calls, so I know she can see that it’s me. She answers on the second ring.
“I need to see you in my office,” I tell her. Then I hang up. Sawyer’s right. I should nip this in the bud now, before it gets out of control.
She arrives exactly four minutes later, three minutes and thirty seconds longer than it takes to walk from Sawyer’s office to mine, if you’re counting. She crosses the threshold of my office holding a small notepad, apparently prepared for some kind of goddamned business meeting.
“Close the door,” I snap at her and instantly wish I could retract my shitty tone when the anxiety crosses her face. She retreats to the door and closes it softly before turning back, pausing a moment before she approaches. She’s in a dress—some kind of beige cable-knit sweater material that clings to her breasts and hips. Breasts and hips that I have a very clear memory of. I really should have fucked her with the lights off. Memory is not my friend.
Gabe It’s the Monday after New Year’s and I’m back at work. Four days since New Year’s Eve. Four days since I’ve seen Sandra. Four days to think about the fact that she didn’t look hurt when I pulled on my pants to leave. She simply slid under the covers on her bed and said, “Thanks for driving me home.”
What the fuck does that mean? Thanks for driving her home? I know she doesn’t have random sex, she can’t possibly—she was too nervous, she didn’t have any condoms on hand. She didn’t even ask me to come inside, for fuck’s sake. I had to invite myself in—after she shut the door in my face. So no, seducing men or having casual hookups, it’s not something Sandra does with regularity. So the casual goodbye stung, even though I was the one leaving. Even though I was the one who had no intentions of spending the night.
I toss the paper coffee cup I came to work with in the trash next to my desk and stand. I walk down to Sawyer’s office and note that Sandra’s not in yet as I pass her desk, located outside of Sawyer’s office. I shut the door anyway, the click causing Sawyer to look up from the monitor on his desk.
“Hey,” he says in greeting.
“Hey,” I return, walking over to snag a bottle of water from the mini-fridge located in a small built-in kitchenette area along the far wall of his office.
“You didn’t make it back to the party the other night,” Sawyer says, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on mine.
“Yeah, no shit,” I respond. “I spent some time with Sandra,” I add when he just stares at me.
“Jesus, Gabe. I told you she’s not that kind of girl.” He sighs at me, actually fucking sighs, and leans back in his chair.
“What kind of girl is that, Sawyer?” I ask, annoyed.
“Temporary. She’s not a temporary kind of girl.”
“Fuck off, Sawyer. She’s a grown woman. Besides, you told me to go for it.”
”No.” He’s shaking his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I said the opposite of ‘go for it.’ I think I used words like, ‘stay away from her’ and ‘employee.’”
“She’s your employee not mine,” I argue.
“You own thirty-five percent of this company, dumbass, that makes her your employee too.”
I shrug. “Then why’d you text me?” I ask, pulling my cell from my pocket and waving it in his direction.
“When did I text you?”
“New Year’s Eve,” I reply, not bothering to keep the implication that he’s an idiot out of my tone. We both pause then, frowning as Sawyer picks up his phone and I scroll back through mine. I find the text that he sent shortly after I dropped Sandra off. I’d still been on the landing outside her apartment, surprised that she hadn’t invited me in, when my phone had pinged to alert me of an incoming text. Finding it, I verify that I’m not crazy and that it did come from Sawyer, then read it aloud. “‘You lazy fuck, she’s not going to ask you in. Man up and invite yourself. Then take off your pants. See you Monday.’”
I look up at Sawyer as I finish speaking to find him shaking his head with a big stupid grin on his face. “God, that girl. That text was from Everly. I don’t even know how she got her hands on my phone.” He’s still smiling, though.
“Ahh.” I nod in understanding. “Speaking of Everly, she’s something. A little young,” I add pointedly, reminding him that he implied I was too old for Sandra.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m going to marry her, Gabe, not break her heart.”
I’d already figured as much. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at that girl. And I’ve been best friends with the guy for almost twenty years, so I’ve seen a lot of women come and go.
He glances at the closed door and back to me. “Look, Gabe, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sandra, I don’t want to know, but you need to stop this before she gets hurt.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, noncommittally. “Yeah,” I repeat, blowing out a breath. He’s probably right. Sandra seemed cool with whatever the other night was. I should leave it at that. She seems like the kind of girl who’ll be picking out baby names and planning happily-ever-afters and I don’t fucking need that. I don’t. I’m in the prime of my life, right? I’m good-looking. I’m loaded. I’ve got no responsibilities outside of work. My life is great.
So I open the door to Sawyer’s office intent on getting back to my own. Intent on calling any of a dozen women in my phone and scheduling something. Except Sandra’s at her desk. And Dave from marketing is at her desk too. And he’s smiling at her. Prick. I’m walking past when I hear him ask her if he’s picking her up at home on Friday or if they’re meeting at the office. I keep walking, tossing the now empty water bottle I snagged from Sawyer’s office into a recycling bin on the way to my office, and return a, “Good morning,” to my assistant as I pass him. I sit at my desk for a minute, drumming my fingers on the surface, before I snatch the handset of my desk phone and punch in the extension to Sandra’s desk. The digital screen on our company phone system announces all incoming calls, so I know she can see that it’s me. She answers on the second ring.
“I need to see you in my office,” I tell her. Then I hang up. Sawyer’s right. I should nip this in the bud now, before it gets out of control.
She arrives exactly four minutes later, three minutes and thirty seconds longer than it takes to walk from Sawyer’s office to mine, if you’re counting. She crosses the threshold of my office holding a small notepad, apparently prepared for some kind of goddamned business meeting.
“Close the door,” I snap at her and instantly wish I could retract my shitty tone when the anxiety crosses her face. She retreats to the door and closes it softly before turning back, pausing a moment before she approaches. She’s in a dress—some kind of beige cable-knit sweater material that clings to her breasts and hips. Breasts and hips that I have a very clear memory of. I really should have fucked her with the lights off. Memory is not my friend.
