Page 63 of Apparently, I’m Torture

I gathered my things and went home to shower.

Wednesday Morning

Verra Convention Center

Lilly

The one good thing about my kitchen conversation with Shawn was that I stopped feeling guilty about touching myself while thinking of him. Since he and Stacey weren’t dating after all, I was free to hate him while still fantasizing about all the things he could do to me. I already said I was a trainwreck, didn’t I? Well, if I wasn’t before, I sure as hell was now.

But that wasn’t entirely Stacey’s fault. So I brushed aside her and Mia’s kitchen encounter, tried on happy-friendly-Lilly (which consisted of a bright smile and a lack of blinking), and extended an olive branch to my former sorority president.

We even had coffee once. She told me all about teaching at Brooklyn Classical. It turned out her devotion to Shawn was purely based on the trust they’d built as work colleagues. He’d chosen her to manage most of his initiatives, raising her career value along with his, and that was it. There was genuinely nothing else to the story there.

I almost wanted to talk to him about all of it. Hearing all the things he did for his students over the years made it difficult to stay mad at him. But the way he avoided me for the rest of the week? That made it easier.

My fourth week was spent finalizing Trevor’s module, for which I was given top marks (gross given the subject matter), and arranging the transport of my merch goodies from one place to another.

There was one last thing: the reusable coffee cups. I couldn’t find someone to take them to Tristy’s for storage.

So, there I was on a dreaded Wednesday, knocking on Shawn’s door, watching as he lifted his head. And cue the tightening of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw and the straightening of his spine.

All the progress we’d made… gone.

I held in a sigh as I said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a problem.”

He stood, walked past me, and shut the door. “What is it?”

“It’s the coffee cups. My last truck driver, uh, his wife’s water broke, and I haven’t been able to find anyone else. We need the cups delivered and stacked in Tristy’s studio by tomorrow, so… what do you think I should do?”

Shawn’s shoulders dropped a notch, and I guessed it was relief. Did he think I came here to pick a fight? He rubbed his chin, pointing his stare at a spot above my shoulder.

“I can pick up a truck from a friend of mine, if he isn’t using it.”

“Wouldn’t you need a license to drive it?”

“I have the right license.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t the great Shawn Jackson know how to drive a truck?

“Well, if your friend isn’t using his truck, why can’t we just ask him to do the job?”

“He runs the delivery company,” he said, as if it answered my question.

I narrowed my glance. “Which company is it?”

“TLC.”

“I called them. They said all their drivers were busy.”

“Right, but he might have a spare truck we can borrow. I’ll call him.”

I dropped my arms and mumbled, “Okay, fine,” as I walked out.

And sure enough, half an hour later, he leaned against my desk and said, “I’ve got the truck squared away for tomorrow, and Tristan agreed to help me lift and parcel them out. If you can print the invoice, I’ll take care of it.”

I straightened in my seat. “I need to be there. They need my ID to release them.”

He bit his lower lip. “You have to be there?”