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I look back to the paper in my hand, the heart that up until this moment I was sure didn’t exist clenching. “I’ll make it happen,” I promise, because I damn well will. I know these people, I have more than a little bit of dirt on most of them, and if anyone can dig up dirt on the others it would be Everett, or Snow, who is the biggest gossip I know.
I saw the good this place does first-hand this morning. Kids who turned up with clothes so old I’m pretty sure their parents had worn the same outfit as a child. Others who looked afraid to take the food we were offering because they were only given rations at home. And John told me they only have the money for the program for another few months. What happens to these children when that time is up? Where will they go? Will they have someone else to feed them?
The breakfast program is only one of many great initiatives this place gives the kids in this neighborhood, and for some reason, I feel the pull to take it upon myself to help them. I have the money, I have the influence, and for once I’m not going to waste it.
Three hours and forty-five phone calls later, the guest list is finalized and full to the brim. When the first five people I called said they would be there, Emerson looked at me like I was an alien, like I couldn’t possibly populate the same earth she did.
Now she sits across the desk from me, staring like she’s not sure what to think of what she has just witnessed. Hell, if anyone I know had seen me for the last few hours, they probably would have rushed me to a fucking hospital. Like I said, I’m a selfish bastard, especially with my time. Money is one thing. I’m more than happy to throw money around to fix just about any problem, and honestly, I probably could just give the Center a chunk of change and set up one or two of these programs for the next few years, but there’s more that they can do, and other people need to see the great things they have already done, even with limited funds.
I’m tempted to ask if Emerson gets paid to do all the work she does here. Or John, for that matter. But I’m pretty sure I won’t like the answer she gives me, so I keep quiet. I’ll know soon enough anyway. Everett will get me everything I need, financial records included.
“Do I have something on my face?” I ask as I cross off the last name on the list and hand the piece of paper back across the desk.
“How did you do that?” Emerson asks incredulously.
For the first time in… ever, I don’t want to brag about how much money I have, or the connections my family has, because something tells me Emerson will not like that. She’s not that kind of girl. She won’t fall at my feet the moment I flash my wallet or buy her an expensive gift. If I want to impress her, I have to do shit I wouldn’t normally do, like corral a bunch of rich people to donate money for a more than worthy cause.
I shrug, deciding any answer I give will put the disdain I have only just managed to remove back into her gaze. Emerson doesn’t seem to like me much, and I’m not sure why. I think it could have something to do with my money, but I’m not sure. I know I haven’t done anything to piss her off. I have two sisters and I know exactly what makes women mad. “Is there anything else you want me to do?”
“Um…” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks over the list in front of her, and I have to shift in my seat because the sight has my cock as hard as a fucking rock. My hand itches to reach across the table and pop it out, because somehow, I’m jealous of her own teeth. I want my teeth to be the only ones clamping down on the soft pillow. “There’s a rogue caterer if you feel like working your voodoo.” She cracks a smile and it’s the first one to touch her eyes. It’s small, and still shrouded by what seems like the weight of the world, but it’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve seen in my life.
I hold my hand out for the number and she hands it over without question. Ten minutes later, the caterer, who frankly was the rudest bitch I’ve ever spoken to, has been dealt with. Only after I had to threaten that she would never work in this city again if she didn’t pull her head out of her ass and do the job she was being paid to do.
Emerson is wide eyed on the other side of the desk. She stopped working the moment I started raising my voice and has been staring at me ever since. She doesn’t know what to make of me, and truthfully, I’m not that sure either. I can’t even tell you the last time I made my own phone calls, I have a fucking personal assistant, for god’s sake. And yet I’ve spent the better part of the morning wrangling guest lists and caterers. Maybe I missed my calling.
I look down at the time and realize I’m late to meet Storm, but for some reason, I don’t want to leave. When was the last time I enjoyed someone else’s company? Have I ever felt so drawn to someone as I am Emerson?
“I need to go. Is there anything else you want me to do? Any other vendors giving you a hard time?” I crack a smile.
Emerson scoffs. “No, but I know who to come to if there are. Thank you for your help today. I was dreading making those calls.”
“My pleasure.” I smile and stand from my seat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn on my heel and leave before I can contemplate staying. I’m too attached to her already, and I don’t know if she’ll be able to handle being the object of my obsessions. Too bad she doesn’t have a say in the matter.
5
Emerson
It’s been a week since Rayne started working at the Center, and as much as it pains me to say it, I think he might be the best volunteer we’ve ever had, community service or otherwise.
He’s great with the kids, he’s happy to help with anything, and I’m not too proud to say that if he hadn’t been around to help with the gala, it probably wouldn’t be going ahead. I still haven’t figured out the dress situation despite raiding my wardrobe more than once and considering I haven’t been in contact with any of my friends since I started working three jobs and barely sleeping, I have no one to ask for one. But that’s a tomorrow problem.
I don’t have a shift at the diner tonight, thank god, and it means I can go home for a few hours’ sleep before I’m due at the club at eleven. I should start on the assignment I have due next week, but I don’t have it in me. All my brain capacity has gone toward the logistics of the event this weekend, and the mere idea of writing five thousand words about the effect bullying has on adolescents makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry.
“I’m heading out for the day.” I pop my head out the back door where Dad and Rayne are playing basketball with some of the kids on the outdoor courts. It’s a nice day, cold but nice, and they must have decided on a change of scenery. At this time of year, the kids are almost exclusively inside, so it’s good for them to get some time outside.
“Play with us, Em!” One of the kids, Kevin, grins at me.
I smile and drop my bag by the back door. I don’t really have the energy, but I also can’t say no to him. Kevin has seen more in his ten years than anyone should see in their entire lives, including watching his mother overdose last year.
Rayne watches me with keen interest as my dad throws the ball to me. I bounce it a couple of times before throwing up a shot that whooshes through the net. I’ve been playing on these courts since I was old enough to walk, and while I don’t spend enough time on them these days, I haven’t lost it.
He lets out an impressed breath but I try to keep my eyes off him. If my body had anything to say about it, I would spend my days staring at Rayne. Every day he shows up in jeans and a Henley, and every day I’ve had to pry my eyes away from him. Not only is he the best volunteer we’ve ever had, he’s also the most attractive.
“Em’s got moves.” Kevin claps animatedly as some of the other kids move from where they were perched on the sidelines.
I miss this.
I miss having the energy to actually spend time with them.
