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As soon as she leaves, I give Dad a pointed look. “We’ll figure this out, okay? We’ll go to the bank. We’ll—”
“They won’t help.” He closes his eyes and gives my hand a firm pump. My heart plummets because my father’s never been the type to roll over and give up. “I screwed up and now I’ll have to pay the price.”
“Don’t say that.” I wipe my hand over the beads of perspiration on my forehead, not giving a damn if I screw up the makeup I’d carefully applied earlier. “I’ve got to get to my shift, but we’ll talk about this later.”
“Flick?” Dad stops me just before I leave his office. I peek over my shoulder. “I’m sorry about this. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not, but there’s no use making him feel worse. I don’t care if I’ve got to sell the shirt off my back and become a permanent fixture at the plasma clinic, we are not losing the restaurant and definitely not the house I grew up in. “I swear we’ll figure something out.”
And I’ll start with visiting the new Cade in charge myself.
Hours later, I sit in my living room telling my roommate about Dad’s problem as she makes herself a drink in the kitchen. I met Wendy in the sixth grade and we’ve been best friends since. After we both decided to stick around Chicago for school, we rented our shoebox apartment together. Wendy doesn’t want her parents knowing where she is at all hours and I want independence, so our cheap, two-bedroom set up works perfectly for us.
“I can’t believe your dad didn’t tell you,” she yells from the other room, and I hear ice cubes clink against glass. “That doesn’t seem like something he’d do.”
“Yeah, I know. He seemed so out of it all afternoon, I didn’t even tell him I was personally getting in touch with Cade to ask for an extension.”
“Speaking of the motherfucker… He finally got back to you?” Wendy appears in front of me holding two Coke and rums. I don’t normally drink the stuff because it tastes like chilled motor oil, but after the day I’ve had, I happily accept the glass.
The first sip burns my tongue and throat, so I only get out an “Mmmhmm,” as she plops down on the opposite end of the couch and grabs her laptop from the coffee table. I beat my palm against my chest a few times until I’m able to wheeze, “He’s meeting with me in the morning.”
I spent most of my shift trying to get in touch with Jackson Cade. After the twentieth time, his soft-spoken receptionist must have gotten sick of sending me to voicemail only for me to call back. He had picked up then, introducing himself in a seductively low voice that zipped a current of electricity straight to my toes. The enemy wasn’t supposed to sound so good, but damn, if his voice hadn’t touched me in places that were … well, untouched.
“You’re persistent as fuck, Miss York,” Jackson had chuckled, and the way he said my name left my throat dry. He’d paused briefly, giving my un-sexed brain enough time to imagine his lips wrapping around other words, before he growled, “Be here at nine, but I can already promise you’re not going to like what I’ve got to say.”
Then, without another word, he hung up on me.
I relay the story to Wendy, who rolls her chocolate brown eyes and snorts. “What a complete fucklet. Do me a favor, Flick, and verbally castrate the bastard tomorrow morning.”
“Right, because that’s always the way to get what you want.” I sip my drink. It goes down easier than the last, but I still cringe. Hauling my own computer onto my lap, I check my eBay auctions and tug my eyebrows together. I started listing old clothes the second I got home, and I’m already up to a whopping forty bucks. “I swear, I’m on the verge of selling my worn panties. I mean, it worked on Orange is the New Black.”
Fluffing her strawberry blond bob, Wendy crinkles her pierced nose. “Filthy, Felicity. Really filthy.”
“Desperate times,” I mutter, slamming the laptop shut. We sit in silence for a few minutes with only the sound of the TV filling the room, then she slaps a hand over her mouth. Arching an eyebrow, I meet her shocked expression. “Oh god, what?”
Sidling across the couch, Wendy spins her laptop around so that I’m staring at a photo of a voluptuous blonde wearing nothing but a scrap of black lace and satin. My face lights up as I take in her come-hither expression—lip tugged between perfect white teeth and partially closed eyelids.
“Is she going to loan me the money?” I ask, laughing.
Wendy raps a long purple fingernail on the screen, luring my attention to the headline. Selling My V-Card for France. Ignoring me as I choke on a mouthful of Coke and rum, my friend excitedly hisses, “It’s fate, Flick.”
