Grumpy Boss, Hamel, B. [free novels to read TXT] 📗

asked, frowning a little. I didn’t want more breakfast, I was stuffed from the pancakes. And all the sex.

“I’m going to call up Jack and have him send everything over to Alec.” He looked down at me, head tilted to the side. “And I’m going to have him register you for the bar.”

I blinked at him rapidly and nearly choked out my coffee. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You can’t stay my assistant forever,” he said, smiling a little bit. “We’ll pick a date far enough out that you’ll have time to prepare. But you’re doing it.”

“Rees—“ I started, then stopped myself, and thought back to that morning, and the night before, and how being with him made me feel like I could do anything, if he could want me, then I could want myself, and finally live up to al that potential I felt I had inside.

The bar was nothing. I was another test, and I could prepare for another test. I knew I’d pass and I’d be completely fine, but what came after that scared me.

Life and everything else waited on the other side.

But maybe that wasn’t so bad, with Rees here.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. “You’re right. I’m ready.”

“Good.” He stooped down and kissed me. I was surprised—I didn’t know we were doing that in public. “I’ll make the call. Hang out.”

And he swept away from the room, practically whistling to himself.

I watched him go, confused about what just happened, but strangely beaming with pride.

I was going to take the bar, and I was going to see this through with Rees. That was all that mattered to me anymore—finally getting to the end of this, and seeing if there was still something between us on the other side. I wanted to kiss him and find out, and yet I knew we had one thing still coming, one final moment that would define everything.

Desmond, in that house.

I sipped my coffee and stared at the table cloth, and hoped people weren’t staring at me.

22

Rees

We parked outside of the peeling light blue house and killed the engine. It was midday, around one in the afternoon, and the sun cast long shadows across the sidewalk. It was a nice busier than it had been the night before: a group of old women sat on a nearby stoop playing cards, a young couple in tight jeans walked a little fluffy white dog, and the branches swayed slightly in the soft breeze.

“It’s pretty here,” Millie said, frowning at the house. “I can see why someone might want to stay.”

“Better in the day than it is at night,” I said, and reached out to take her hand. I felt like some barrier had broken between us, and what was unspoken and hidden was out in the open now and acknowledged. It felt good, like I’d taken the bricks of myself and recast them, then put myself together again. “Maybe we can try having sex before we go in.”

Millie snorted and squinted at the old ladies with their poofy white hair. “I doubt they’ll like it,” she said.

“Ah, come on, they were young once, and who knows. Maybe they’d enjoy the show.”

She gave me a look and opened the door. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and I hesitated, and some weak part of me wanted to stay in the car and hide out.

But I was too angry, and Desmond had done too much to try and break me. I stepped out into the comfortable sunlight and took Millie’s hand as we crossed the street. She looked good in a pair of black slacks and a navy-blue button down with white polka dots, her hair up in a messy bun, lips colored a very subtle pink. Made up or unmade, she always left me wanting more.

I walked up the porch steps, testing them to make sure they wouldn’t give out. Millie followed, but waited back by the railing as I rung the bell.

Noting happened at first. I glanced back at her and she shrugged. “It’s the middle of the day,” she said. “Maybe he’s not home.”

“He’s home,” I said, and rung the bell again. Desmond was a cliché, through and through, and if he was even remotely like the man I knew, he’d have been up late the night before, and likely just woke up.

I rang again, and again, and soon I heard footsteps inside, creaking floorboards, someone coughing. I felt a spike and I thought I recognized the sound—and a second later, the door opened, and Desmond stood there in a long, ratty gray robe, his once-black hair gone gray and thinning, his white t-shirt pit stained and threadbare, and his eyes widened as I tilted my head, and leaned against the door frame.

“Hello, Des,” I said. “Invite me inside.”

“What the hell,” he said, and started to shut the door, but I stepped forward and shoved against it. “What the hell are you doing here?” he gasped, trying to shove me back, but he’d lost weight in the years since I last saw him, his cheeks sunken, his chin covered in a thin, ugly beard. He was a haunted version of the man I knew a long time ago, and this only confirmed that my old friend was dead, buried by time and distance and too many things we couldn’t take back.

I rammed my shoulder into the door and it flew open with a bang. He grunted as he stumbled back and tripped over the end of a recliner. I stepped inside and looked around—the place was a wreck. Newspapers were stacked on the coffee table, and more than a few empty vodka bottles were lined up against the wall, each of them plastic, with peeling labels. The television was ten years out of style and chipped on the sides, and the walls were marked by fingers and smudged.

Desmond stared up at me from the floor, the carpet brown and mottled with stains. “You shouldn’t