THE LIE (Manhattan Nights #6)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

NANCY

The Alchemist, Manhattan NYC

Friday night

Firing employees has never been my forte.

In fact, if I were to be graded on the act, it would be the first “F” I ever really earned in my entire education-centered life.

The bad part of it all: My City University of New York business classes never prepared me to handle issues like this one.

Neither has the ‘University of YouTube.’

And no matter how many let someone down easy videos I watch, no matter how many times I practice it in the mirror, I’m no longer closer to perfecting the task of being the b***h.

The one who hires people and fires them.

But then again, nothing (and no website) ever prepares you for what to do when your business is on the verge of collapsing.

I will say this: I plan on writing a strongly worded letter to my CUNY professors for leaving this little tidbit out of the curriculum.

Because being in the top ten percent of your graduating cohort means nothing when a company man twice your age shoves a figure fifty thousand dollars over your budget across your marred, oak office desk.

The piece of crinkled paper with the price of the new construction blurs in front of me, and I blink—blink back the burning behind my eyes, hoping that the numbers on the page will change.

They don’t.

“That’s it?” I inch closer to the page, my eyeglasses threatening to slide off my face. “That can’t be right.”

“I can assure you, Ms. Anderson. That’s the price we’ve estimated to fix the piping problems.”

“It has an extra zero. Or four.”

“I know.” The balding businessman pinches his lips together, sipping an Alchemist-made espresso too hot for his thin lips. He frowns. “And when I went over the numbers with my accountant, I thought he might be wrong too. But then we ran another estimation. The repairs. They’re extensive. This building was built pre-war.”

“I know. This building was built right before the Prohibition era. An Irish mainstay. It’s why we’ve loved it so much. It’s a classic.”

“Why, yes. That is true. But a classic bar comes with a cost, Ms. Anderson. And after everything that happened last year, the arson, the damage, the insurance company refusing to cover it—”

“I get the drift, Michael. We’ve had a lot of misfortune.”

“Well,” the bald man shifts in his leather seat, his face full of grim lines, “then you might want to find—I don’t know—an investor, maybe? Or someone that can back you. It might make the process a little easier.”

“Easier?” My stomach roils at the thought. The thought of asking someone for money for our business. “But this construction is set to start on Monday…”

“Yes, I know.”

“And you expect me to find someone to give me, or loan me, fifty thousand dollars…in three days?”

Michael Bassett squirms again, like an impatient penguin. “Well, when you put it like that…” He straightens, clearing his throat. “Well, it was only a suggestion.”

Suggestion was right.

Because there was nothing real or actually feasible about finding one person to fund a new construction project in my bar for more money than I’d seen in a lifetime.

And without the construction, the bar wouldn’t be up to city planning code.

Which means, we’d be shut down.

Closed. Maybe permanently.

Like every other place with personality in this small corner of Manhattan.

I stand to my feet, feeling wobbly the second I make it there.

“Thank you for your help, Michael.” I extend a hand. “It was definitely eye-opening.”

The head of The Alchemist’s construction project takes it, shaking it, new sadness etched into his expression. “You too, Anne. By the way,” he hesitates—a heavy beat, “never got to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your father. I remember the first time he hired me. Good man.” He exhales. “See you on Monday.”

He turns.

“See you on Monday…”

I say the words to his retreating back. But he’s already gone by the time they stop echoing in the windowless office space.

The room falls silent, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.

The sound of Michael Bennet saying my actual name “Anne” still reverberates in my mind—remnants of days when my father was still around. I’ve never really been a Nancy—it was a nickname far too whimsical for such a serious child, but my father had liked it, and so I decided to, too.

Unfortunately, right now, both Nancy and Anne are screwed—the two sides of my personality not exactly playing nice as I put my head on my wooden desk in the aftermath of the disastrous meeting.

Removing my eyeglasses, I exhale against the desk, the slight grooves on the surface lightly scratching the surface of my skin…just as the sound of a knock taps at the door.

I don’t say “come in.”

The blackness in front of me swirls.

“Meeting went that well, huh?”

I groan at the sound of my best friend Sophia’s voice, the timbre of my tone foreign to my own ears, my hair sweating around the edges.

I thread my fingers through the rose gold strands, swiping them back.

“Yup. It went that well.”

I hear her take a step closer. “Red wine-well…or martini-well?”

“Martini-well. It went martini-well. Extra dry, three olives-martini-well, if you don’t mind.”

“Damn. Lucky for you, I already figured we would need the ‘dealing-with-bullshit’ kit. Sometimes I hate it when I’m right.”

The brunette sits on the other side of the desk, and I hear rustling—the rustling of what can only be the makings of the drink I needed two minutes ago.

Two minutes ago, when I realized that I needed to line up another wage cutting. Or meeting with the bank.

Or worse.

Possibly line up a meeting to put an employee on the chopping block.

YouTube owed me a sponsorship, I was using them so much.

I raise my head.

“Soph, you’re the best, alcohol-enabling friend that ever existed.”

She grins back. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Sure. I’ll tell you something you don’t know. How about this? My business is going to close by week’s end. I bet that’s something you didn’t know. Oh—” I raise a finger, pointing it towards the sky, “my brother and co-business owner is going to kill me. He’s going to kill me when he finds out that I botched the only project I’ve ever worked on my own.”

Pulling a martini shaker from a deposited bag on the counter, Sophia shakes it over her shoulder, her hazel eyes widening with each second that passes. She rushes to pour the heady combo of vodka and vermouth into my glass.

“Don’t say another word. I’m pouring. I’m pouring right now.”

“God,” I say as the intoxicating liquid sloshes into the cone-shaped glass, skillfully staying inside its confines. “Can anyone explain why making it in this city is so hard?”

“I think they design it that way.”

“I don’t know how you do it. Selling art to people whose bank accounts could eat mine ten times over.”

“Easy. I just nod, say ‘thanks’ and take the check. You’d do well to do the same.”

“I can’t. I can’t talk to really rich people. My foot’s always in my mouth when I try.” I nudge her. “And you’re probably getting all the practice you’ll ever need. You’re living with Mr. Money Bags himself. You have to talk to those people.”

Sophia scoffs, finishing the filling of her own glass, her pink lips twisted. “Oh, no, no, no. Noah keeps me out of all those real estate events as much as possible. He hates those Richie Rich-types almost as much as I do. And, seriously, I’m a Bronx girl. I’m not used to the Manhattan theatrics.” She pauses. “I take it from the enthusiastic look on your face that construction meeting was a bust?”

“Let’s put it this way: Tonight, I’m a snowball. And getting the repairs we need done to stay in business is a chance in Hell.”

“Ouch. That’s a nice chunk of change that Michael guy forgot to mention earlier.” Sophia frowns. “That construction head is an ass-clown. And you? You’re fabulous at your job. You’ve turned this place into more than anyone ever could have imagined. f**k that guy.”

I take a sip of my drink. “That’s the problem. Maybe it would work in my favor if I would… Don’t get me wrong, business isn’t bad. But profit margins are low with restaurants and bars. Everyone knows that. I can barely hold on as it is.”

Sophia levels me with a hard stare, peering over the edge of her glass, hazel eyes hot. “Maybe Noah could give you the money…”

“Give me the money.”

As in an IOU.

I was familiar with the concept of IOUs. My father had taught me this lesson well.

I take another sip of my martini, but this one—this sip goes down like acid.

Almost as bad as the thought of putting my firing practice into action is the thought of taking money for doing nothing.

I knew if something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. And I wasn’t built that way…

A loan I could do.

With a loan, there was interest accruing. And agreements. And p*****t plans.

You earned that money.

But taking cash—owing someone a favor—came with its own dangers.

Dangers that make my heart leap into my throat and stay there.

“I can’t, Soph,” I shake my head at her. “I wish it were that easy. But I just can’t. I—”

“No worries,” my martini-in-arms partner stops me with a hand. “It was just a suggestion.”

Just a suggestion.

There it is again. My life seemed full of them.

“And, in the meantime,” Sophia brushes a sheet of long dark hair over her shoulder, “maybe you could use a man-shaped ‘dealing-with-bullshit’ kit. I know mine (AKA Noah) has always done the trick for me…”

“‘Man-shaped-bullshit-kit’? Me? Have you met me?”

“Have you?” She presses, eyeing me over the olives in her martini. “You’ve been going at it so hard with running the business and managing it lately. That you can afford to let loose a little. You can afford to go for better. You can afford to want. freaking. more, Nancy. More than you let yourself have. A little more won’t kill you, though, I know you think it will.”

Her words resonate, ringing something inside me.

But Sophia keeps talking, not realizing the note she’s struck somewhere in my mind as she keeps babbling something about men.

Something I pick up seconds later.

“And besides…” she declares, as my mind checks back into the convo, “you are a freaking hottie. So, go out and mingle at the bar tonight. Meet someone new. Go get laid. It’ll take your mind off this meeting and maybe even get your head back on straight. A little ‘head’ can get you ahead…as long as it’s by the right man.”

She rolls her eyes as I open my mouth, her voice sharp. “—and, by the way, I am not talking about that stuffed shirt. Eric Whats-His-Name-Or-Whatever. He’s so lame. No. No, I’m talking about getting laid by someone else. Someone new. Someone who will give you a full-on, mind-blowing, p***y-pounding, nasty, sweat-soaked kind of f*****g. You clearly need that type of s*x in your life.”

I almost drain my glass, my lips are suddenly so greedy. Heart pounding beneath my blouse, I gape, the liquor settling in fast.

I cough. “Soph, Jesus Christ. Who do you think I am? Do you know what I did on my last wild night?”

“Your taxes?”

“I ordered in sushi and watched old black-and-white movies with Domino until 3AM. That’s my idea of a wild night.”

“Ugh. Not Domino. Any creature but Domino. That cat is worse company than stale loaf-of-bread, Eric.”

“Hey.” I stop her, the martini giving me more mouth than I’ve had all day. I fix my askew collar, glaring. “Eric is a great manager. He’s helped a lot around here. He’s nice.. Smart. Stable. He drives an eco-friendly car, for crying out loud. And he is absolutely nothing like—”

“Andrew?”

I stop. A few tense seconds pass between Soph and me, and I rise to my feet, shaking imaginary dust off my skirt.

Shaking off the memory of what happened with Andrew just a week ago. A memory I won’t discuss.

“That’s an obscene suggestion to make, Soph. Andrew is a friend…” She tilts her head and I backtrack. “Okay, so he’s something ‘friend-like.’ And even if we weren’t associates or whatever, it would be completely wrong to talk about him that way. He’s my bartender.” I reach for the papers on my desk. “And my employee.” I snatch another few. “And I’m his boss, so that makes this conversation absolutely ridic—”

“—Oh, come on, Nancy. I’m Andrew’s friend. And I used to be his neighbor. Your dynamic with him is nothing like ours. You two are as compatible as…as…fire and ice. And you’re not just his boss. You’re not his friend, either. Actually…” she ponders, putting one finger to her chin, her smile smug, “I don’t think there’s an actual definition for what the two of you are.”

The words slice hard, digging deep into my skin. My urge to refute them is just as hard, as it is every time we talk about Andrew, but on a day like today, I’m too damn tired.

My blouse feels stifling. And my pencil skirt might just be a smidge too tight.

But more importantly than my uncomfortable wardrobe choices, I’ve got about two minutes and forty seconds to get out of my office, prep and salvage the rest of the afternoon before the evening fundraiser crowd comes in full force.

Clutching my papers to my chest, I round the desk, marching towards my closed door. I don’t turn to Sophia, scared I’ll turn into stone if I do.

“Soph, I’m so not talking about this right now.”

“Well, if not now,” she shouts back at me, “then when?”

“Hmm, never sounds like a great option.”

I storm out of the door, closing it as softly behind me as I can, my chest heaving.

It’s just all this stress.

Gotta be.

Because as far as dating anyone like Andrew Fletcher, you could count me out.

And speaking of counting…that’s exactly what I might have to do.

Count Andrew Fletcher out.

Fire my first employee…

Ever.

I might not be able to take Noah’s money. But I could do this.

I have to. Andrew lied about being at the bar, and he’s already late for tonight’s shift.

A night that could help make or break the business with the way things are going.

Feet moving fast, I whip out my phone and start to text him immediately, my hands shaking with every step I take.