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Having just left the chiropractor, my body feels like it’s been bent and broken in multiple places. The aches that make themselves known as I move let me know Dean did the job I paid him for. The chronic pain that comes from old age and exerting myself constantly is dull, almost non-existent. The ache I feel currently is the good kind. It tells me that all the pressure has been relieved, even if my body was snapped, crackled, and popped.
Walking into Onyx for another tame Wednesday night is the perfect way to spend my evening. I don’t even need to be here most nights; I hire great employees who are more than competent to run my businesses in my stead, but I like being here. Even if only for a few hours.
I never want to be the boss that is unapproachable or so far removed from his staff that they feel like they can’t come to him. Or that he doesn’t know anything that goes on. If everyone left today, I could function and run this place myself. Not that I want that to happen, but I made it my mission to always make sure I knew the ins and outs of every position.
Granted, I don’t think I’d look as good as the others in the shot girls’ outfit, but I’m sure it could appeal to someone. I laugh to myself at the thought.
I slip into the back entrance to my office and pull off the sweatshirt I’m wearing, hanging it on the coat rack. I’m in more casual clothes, my typical attire for when I’m not working, and I don’t feel like changing just quite yet into something more expected of me.
My dark gray t-shirt and dark denim jeans suit me just fine as I sit at my desk to boot up my computer.
I’m going through emails, checking in for anything that I need to sign off. Approving supplier invoices for Ian, payroll for Allie, and deleting a whole host of people that seem to think reaching out to me via email is the best way to get my attention after seeing me at Opal.
Piece of advice: it’s not.
Once that’s all taken care of, I pick up my phone to check in on O.
Me: How’s the job hunt going?
It’s been three days since that semi-awkward Sunday night dessert fiasco, and I’m hoping we can just bury it. Minutes tick by without a response, but I send another text, anyway.
Me: Okay, ignore me about that. But you still owe me because we’re tied in Yahtzee rounds, and you and I both know there has to be a clear winner.
I choose to poke at her competitiveness in order to get a response.
Ten more minutes pass by without a response. I look at my phone and it shows delivered but not read. It’s possible she turned her read receipts off, but I highly doubt it. She never has before, and there’s no reason for it to happen now.
I don’t have that sour feeling in my gut that something is wrong, so I force myself not to pull up her location on my phone. She’s an adult and has a right to her privacy, and fifteen minutes without answering me isn’t a green light to poke into where the hell she is at.
These are all things I tell myself as I stare at my phone on the edge of my desk.
I need a distraction.
I’m killing time by catching up on current news and before long, I notice an hour has gone by and still nothing.
Well, now I feel like it’s an appropriate time for me to pry as I bring up the program that will give me October’s location.
I watch as the wheel spins, triangulating until it finally stops.
Less than 200 feet away from where I’m at currently.
That can’t be fucking right.
I force close the program and bring it back up and sure enough, the same location pings.
Maybe she’s stopping by for something. It’s not completely unusual, and she has been here before, but she typically refrains from coming here.
Flipping on the camera system that runs throughout the building, I pull up the hallway leading toward my office, but I don’t see her. Checking the outside cameras, I don’t see her lingering either, checking both the main entrance and the employee entrance on the off chance she couldn’t get in because she doesn’t have a keycard.
Where the hell are you, O?
Something catches my eye out of the corner camera. The one positioned to the right of the bar.
Ian moves just enough for his tall ass to show me what I’m convinced has to be a lie.
My damn daughter is behind the bar in a fucking Onyx tank top cut low enough that everyone can see her ample chest, and she’s beaming at my head bartender.
It’s barely seven, so the crowd is thinned out enough I’m not concerned about making a fucking scene as I leave my office, taking fast and long strides to reach the main room.
