Good Girl : An Enemies-to-Lovers, Roommate Romance (Alphahole Roommates Book 2), page 13
“Wow, Sienna. Fucking wow.”
“Besides, I’m no longer broken up about Aiden. You cured me of that and I planning to tell you I’m interested in you. So, why don’t you erase that recording and take me to lunch?”
“Got lunch already.” I gesture to the cooler bag behind her.
She stares at me for a minute before she replies. “If you’ve decided to take a play out of your brother’s handbook and be a jerk about this, your call. You probably feel like you need to save face with your brother who might about now be realizing his mistake marrying that girl instead of getting back with me.”
This chick is delusional.
“Drugging someone and climbing on them while they’re halfway unconscious is date rape, Sienna. I didn’t consent to that and I wasn’t in any sort of state to consent to anything, because you drugged me. If I got hard enough for you to get off, it’s not because I wanted you. And what are you up to now? Thinking you can string me along and keep pissing off my brother? You think I’m that gullible? You think Aiden gives that much of a shit what you do?”
“Pff. You’re sure you want to play it this way? It doesn’t have to be this way.” She slowly parts her legs wider, giving me a view that I’m not interested in.
“Very sure. Get out.”
She stares at me with shock. “You’re seriously going to drag both our names through the mud with a bogus charge?”
“It ain’t bogus, and yes I am.”
“You’re bluffing. Aiden put you up to this?”
“Wait ‘n see.”
Her lips twist into a very unattractive scowl before she straightens. “Good luck in our circles trying to call rape, Austin. Not only is it untrue, you’ll be a laughingstock. Have you thought about that?”
I glare at her. “Get out. Or I’ll call security.”
“Think about this before you do anything. This would be really fucking stupid of you,” she warns. “Think long and hard, Austin.” And then she storms out.
I hit my phone screen to make the recording stop and then I forward a copy of it to Dan, the lawyer on our team that’s spearheading the case for me.
I lean back in my chair and blow out a breath while finger combing my hair back.
Bitch.
The bitch isn’t wrong, though. There will be people who laugh at the prospect of a 6’1” 185-pound guy calling rape against a 5’7” 100-pound woman. And that’s bullshit. Because whether I’m a guy or a girl, she drugged me and took advantage of the situation.
I don’t think she planned it, but she did act on opportunity.
She took her opportunity when I walked up to her in the bar. Obviously, she had the drug on her because, my guess - she planned to give it to Aiden before his wedding so she could derail his life and make sure Carly called off the wedding.
Her father thwarted that plan by lying about which resort. Then I walk in and bam, plan B. She wanted us to get caught. She wanted to cause problems in my family.
And bottom line, whatever her reasons, I should get to decide who I fuck.
I don’t know how she knows about my fight with Meryl’s boyfriend, but there were a lot of eyes on that confrontation, or for all I know, she overheard my mother talking to Roger about it.
Whatever. I’ll let the lawyers deal with this shit.
I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me and now my head is fucked. I’m pissed.
My eyes land on the cooler bag and a stab of remorse hits.
How was I supposed to know Jada was making my lunch? I told her she didn’t have to start working for me until today and I didn’t even consider lunch factoring into that.
I unzip the bag with multiple compartments and catch sight of something written on the tag on the bottom. “Jada” in purple marker. She lent me her lunch bag.
In the top compartment there’s a bottle of water, a banana, and three small, lidded containers holding guacamole, sour cream, and salsa. There’s also a Snickers protein bar. I open the other side and there’s a foil packet of warm tortillas with a Thermos. I open the Thermos. Chicken peppers, mushrooms, and onions fried in salsa. Steam curls up from the mouth of it and it smells great.
Inside a zippered sandwich bag there’s a knife, fork, napkin, even a fucking wet wipe packet for me to wipe my hands afterwards. There are also individual salt and pepper packets.
Guilt hits again.
But why should I feel guilty? Because this girl that is getting paid to do shit for me actually does what she’s being paid to do?
I open the foil packet wide to use it like a plate and dump some of the thermos contents onto the top tortilla, using the plastic knife to add the sour cream and salsa. I skip the guacamole and wrap up the tortilla.
It’s fucking delicious. She’s packed me enough for four of these things. I eat two and a half of them, eat like it’s my last meal. Or the best meal I’ve had in a long time. I wind up with salsa on my knee, chicken on papers on my desk, and I don’t give two shits.
As I’m wrapping up the half-eaten one in the foil, because I’m stuffed (but I might want it later because it’s too good to throw out), my phone rings. Dad.
“Great,” I mutter and wipe my mouth as I answer the call.
He’s been a demanding prick since I’ve been here. He’s rightfully livid about the shit Bassell was up to, shit that’s still being uncovered through my audit. That employee is going to see us in court, in fact, and I’m looking to find out if he had any accomplices that haven’t already been fired. We’re damn near sure he was feeding stuff to the competition.
“Hey, Dad.” I screw the lid tight on the Thermos and lean back in my chair, using the wet wipe to dab at the food stain on my knee.
“Austin, are you all right?”
“Debatable. Why?”
“Alice was on the phone with Olivia at reception there and she said she thinks Sienna Greer just left your office.”
“What? How do Alice and Liv know that’s even an issue?”
“I told Alice what happened. And Olivia mention some dramatic redhead with an attitude was leaving your office in a huff while they talked on the phone.”
My eyes close. I’m not fucking happy about this.
“I told her not to say anything, and she won’t,” Dad adds.
“Dad, fuck.”
He’s silent on the phone for a second.
“I’d prefer you not tell anybody about this shit. This is highly personal, Dad.”
“I…” He lets that hang and just holds the phone.
I scoff and shake my head.
“Sorry, Austin,” he finally says.
“Whatever. Just please, nobody else, Dad. Okay?”
“Okay, son. Alice will be discreet. I promise.”
I shake my head. I fucking hope so. Why would my father tell his assistant about this?
“What happened with Sienna in the office?” he asks.
“She breezed in here acting like she wants a relationship. Flashed me her underwear. Playin’ like I’m crazy if I think it wasn’t consensual. Says we were drunk and not only won’t I have a leg to stand on legally, but I’ll be a laughingstock too. A guy reporting a girl for date rape. Of course she’s playing it off like anybody could’ve drugged me. She doesn’t know I have video.”
“Unfortunately, she’s right about public opinion.”
“A man can’t possibly be taken against his will?”
“Obviously, he can,” my father says.
I sigh.
“I’m sorry, son. Very sorry that this happened to you.”
“Thanks. I recorded the conversation and sent it to Dan.”
“You need anything?” Dad offers.
“Just some peace and quiet to get work done.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go. Let me know your findings when you’re done with that audit.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow, maybe?”
I feel my blood heat up even more.
“No, Dad. At least three or four more business days. At least. This is a mountain of shit I’m digging through.”
“Oh. Okay. As soon as you can. Bye for now.”
I’m about to slam the phone, but think better of it. This is Quentin Carmichael – he’s built this company for us and he cares a lot about it.
“Wait. Dad, how are you doing? How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Fine, Austin. Fine.”
“Honestly, Dad.”
Silence for a second, then, “Feeling like shit. Feeling twice my age. Forgetting stuff. Hate it.”
“You should take time off.”
“No. I shouldn’t. I need to keep busy. Don’t need time in my head, son.”
“I get that.” And I do.
“I know you do. Thanks for all you’re doing there. I have to run.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Bye, Auz. You’re doing great up there. I’m glad I have you there ironing things out.”
Once I hang up, I head to reception and first I tell Olivia not to let anyone in like that again. When she defends that she was in the bathroom and the relief receptionist didn’t get a chance to stop Sienna from just waltzing in I lose my cool and call the entire remaining staff of a dozen out to the floor and ream them all out, telling them nobody should be inside the office without an escort. I warn there’s an audit being done and say some of their former coworkers were fired because of fraud. No one but staff are allowed in the office until further notice and the end of my tirade warns that if any others are found to be in cahoots with the people who have been fired over mishandling of company documents or funds will not only lose their jobs, they’ll be charged criminally.
The mood the rest of the day is tense. Of course it is. I all but told them they’re all under suspicion. The tension hangs in the air of the office, which is a lot quieter than usual, and I’m tired. Tired of being pissed off more than anything, but I can’t seem to shake my anger.
Adele even messaged late in the afternoon asking how I’m doing, if I’m okay.
No. Hate every single person in NYC. Hate them. This is bullshit.
A few minutes later, she replied with,
Even Jerry Seinfeld? You love Jerry.
I snickered at that.
My guess is Dad told Adele I’m having a rough time. My sister is a beautiful soul who will immediately take issue with anyone in her family being the least bit unhappy.
She replied again.
What about Spike Lee? You can’t hate Spike. You’ve seen Clockers how many times? You love Spike.
And one more time before I had to answer.
Surely you don’t suddenly hate ScarJo. I know all about your giant ScarJo crush.
I replied.
Stop Googling famous New Yorkers just to argue with me.
Her response:
Busted. But I wasn’t trying to argue with you. I was trying to make you smile. Isn’t Mother Teresa a New Yorker too? I know my baby brother isn’t a saint-hater…
Me: I think she was Italian.
Adele: “Nope, Macedonian.”
Me: “Get off the Google, addict.”
Adele: “I’ll get off the Google if you get off the grumpy. I’ll send you cute pics of your niece and nephew. Will that help? Bray misses you already. I went to your house to grab your mail the other day and he looked for you even though I told him you weren’t there. He was convinced you were playing hide and seek.”
Me: Definitely. I need Braeden and Lilly pictures badly. Thanks.
She sent about twenty texts, pictures and short videos of Braeden and Lilly, including one with Braed waving and saying “Miss you Unco Auzzie”.
That kid is smart as a whip. And I’m gonna hate it when he loses his toddler speech impediment. Kid is too smart for his age, too. Me and my sister live in the same neighborhood, so I see her kids a lot. I miss my little buddy.
But that slice of home did help. So I again scroll through everything she sent during my cab ride back to the apartment after work, carrying Jada’s empty lunch bag with me. I left my laptop at the office tonight, knowing I’m too exhausted to do any more work today. It’s Friday, but I plan to be at work tomorrow anyway.
I ate the last fajita and a half at four o’clock with the banana and stashed the protein bar in my desk. I can’t help but wonder what she’s made for dinner.
15
Jada
Austin Carmichael is an alphahole jerk. I barely slept last night after he threatened to fire me for cooking his lunch. I lay in bed for forever - seething. I tossed and turned and finally I sat up and snapped open my laptop. I started writing to get my frustration out.
I’ve taken to doing this a lot in the last year. When I can’t have the kind of exchange with somebody I want, I write it down.
I’ve written letters to my father, my brother, my absent mother, where I’ve said what I really feel, said what I really need them to hear.
I couldn’t bring myself to type ‘Dear Austin’ and somehow, my plans to write a confrontation scene between a housekeeper and her boss that would end in her telling him everything she thought, maybe even murdering him at the end so that I could purge my anger went a different way.
I wound up starting a story and not the kind of story I want to be writing. Because it’s a smutty story and he’s the main male character.
Yep, I’m writing dirty sex stories about my boss – that I hate.
And I’m feeling guilty about being the main female character, and about all the things he and I wind up doing in this story.
But I can’t seem to stop writing it. I worked on it until four o’clock in the morning. I worked on it again after my first cup of coffee at nine o’clock. And I opened my laptop up the minute I got back from dropping his lunch off, too.
That he didn’t bring his lunch today gave me the perfect opportunity to show him he was wrong about me last night. The look on his face when he realized I brought him lunch that I’d been cooking when he hollered at me – priceless.
I even wore my job interview outfit for extra punch.
He felt guilty for a split second for yelling at me last night. And then that girl came in and I almost fell over. Because I know who she is. There are pictures of her in this apartment. Or there used to be. I haven’t seen that photo album in a long time, so Aiden must have gotten rid of it.
Organizing for Aiden, I found it and couldn’t help, being in my crush mode – I looked. I saw lots of pictures of Aiden with that girl and lots more pictures of that girl, including some very risqué ones. I’ve seen her naked, in fact. In picture form.
Is Austin having a thing with Aiden’s ex?
Wouldn’t surprise me - a jerk like that.
***
He arrives at 4:20. When he enters, he’s looking at his phone, smiling, and I barely recognize him with that smile on his face. It’s kind of startling, actually, in contrast to the scowl that’s usually fixed in place.
His eyes then move from his phone to me as he shuts the door and his expression changes. Even the air in the apartment feels like it changes and suddenly I’m tense. On alert. Defensive. Feeling like I’m about to get in trouble for something.
I’m at the island with my laptop, working on that story. Because I can’t seem to help myself.
I quickly save the document and close the lid before I hop down and grab my laptop and my phone to take with me.
“Your dinner is in the fridge,” I say, “There’s a ‘reheat’ setting on the microwave that should work great, unless you want me to heat it up for you.”
“I’ll do it. Just need to shower and work out first.”
I move to the stereo and turn the music off before I slip into my room and shut the door without a word of reply from him.
I am determined not to fail at this. Everything will be immaculate in this apartment and he won’t have a thing to complain about again. I’ll be a consummate professional staying out of his way and delivering on making his life here easier for the next few months while banking everything I can and working hard on my stories.
I had a productive day. I cleaned, went grocery shopping, took Austin his lunch, and spent hours writing. Even if it’s stuff I shouldn’t be writing, I figure I’ll count it as practice. ‘
I also did something for my future and enrolled in a writer’s workshop at the library. It’s free and the group meets once a week, starting the week after next. It’s held by a published romance author and I figure I’ll be able to get something out of it.
If not, at least it’s free and it’ll get me out of the apartment for something weekly that’s just mine. I need something that’s for me after all this time of doing things for everyone else.
I’ll think about school in a couple months when this job ends.
Looking after Shane, looking after Dad and Shane before that – it feels like it’s about time I do something for myself that might help me move forward with my hopes and dreams.
After Mom left, I tried to be the woman of the house, doing laundry and cleaning at nine years old. Cooking dinner from the age of ten with little to no thanks from my father whose life consisted of work, the local bar for a few drinks, then dinner and the news followed by a sports or old rerun sitcoms, more news, and then bed. Same thing every day. On weekends he’d tinker in the yard or the garage and go for drives in his classic muscle car and then home, dinner, bar, TV, bed. Sometimes he’d skip dinner and spend a lot of time in the bar, especially once Shane and I hit our teens.
As for our relationship with him, he was always butting heads with Shane for forgetting to take out the trash, mow the lawn, or shovel the driveway in winters or who, when he did do it, didn’t do things to Dad’s standards.
I was determined to give Dad nothing to complain about where I was concerned so I barely asked for anything, got decent grades, never got in trouble and did as much as I could around the house.
Dad wasn’t exactly mean to me, but he wasn’t all that affectionate either. He’s a hard-ass, old-fashioned, and set in his ways.
