STAY (Wags #2)

3. Shoulder Fetish-1

Three

Shoulder Fetish

HaileyI toss and turn all night after that chat with Sniper. When my alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning, I groan loudly at the ceiling.

He called me cute. He said it more than once!

Maybe I’m the most pathetic girl in the world, but I read over that chat conversation about a hundred times before I shut off the light and tried to sleep.

I shouldn’t have flirted with him. But, hell, it was fun.

When I eventually haul my tired butt into the office, the morning creeps by. I meet with our programmer to discuss some new functionality for the mobile app, but I’m watching the clock the whole time.

I’m desperate to walk a dog. That’s what my life has come to. A nice dog. But still.

As ten o’clock approaches, I wrap up the meeting and shoo the programmer out of my office. I don’t want to be late to walk Rufus. And, damn it, there’s a flagged request waiting in the queue for me—a gig for Mr. d**k.

I text Jenny, who appears in my office a moment later. “What’s he done this time?” she asks eagerly

“Didn’t open it yet, because I know you enjoy being in on it.”

“You’re the best kind of friend,” Jenny says, dancing around my desk to stand behind me. “Want to go out for drinks tomorrow night? I can’t do tonight because I have roller-derby practice.”

“Sure.” Jenny likes to drag me out to bars in the hopes that we’ll meet some decent men. It never works out the way she plans, but it’s more fun than sitting around in my apartment like a loser. “Pick a place with a TV, though? We’re playing Buffalo at home. And I think we can win this one. I’m looking forward to it.”

My friend groans. “Not a sports bar. I want glamour, not beer funk and peanut shells.”

“But plenty of men will be there,” I point out.

Her frown is contemplative. “I’ll meditate on it.”

“You do that.” I click on Mr. d**k’s request. It reads: MrEightInches requires: one silk Kimono.

“Oh God!” Jenny snorts. “This could be a good one.”

And Mr. d**k does not disappoint. He requires a kimono in men’s size medium. At least forty-eight inches long, he’s supplied. 100% silk. Color unimportant.

Naturally there’s a photo. He’s cropped off his face, which is a shame because Jenny and I have been curious about him for ages. But a man’s body is shown—naked except for a stretchy pair of bright blue briefs, barely covering his erection, which lays angled in the briefs, straining the fabric.

Jenny giggles, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.

In the shot, a tape measure dangles from his shoulder, hanging down his body. The tape passes his unit, ending at about his knee. I zoom in on the end to see that it’s fifty inches at that length.

“Do you think you can find a kimono?” I ask. “Use my computer if you want. There’s something I need to run out and do.” A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost time to walk Rufus.

“Wait. Zoom in! We can finally verify whether MrEightInches is telling the truth! The angle of the tape isn’t quite right, though. So we’ll have to do a little trigonometry to discern whether his hypotenuse is eight inches. We can use the Pythagorean theorem...”

“Gotta run,” I say, getting out of the chair. “I’ll text you in twenty, okay? If the kimono proves hard to find, we’ll brainstorm.”

Jenny slides into the desk chair I’ve vacated, but her eyes are following me as I grab my jacket and shove my arms inside. “You’re acting a little weird right now.”

“Just late. Bye!” I escape, leaving Jenny to wonder, and hopefully to buy a kimono for a rich guy with a long dong.

Is my business fun, or what?

Sniper’s apartment is just a couple blocks from my office, so it only takes me a few minutes at a slow jog. I wore very sensible shoes today for my romp with Rufus. The building is the kind with a shiny-buttoned doorman waiting to usher me inside.

“I’m here to walk Rufus in 303,” I tell him.

“He’ll be happy to see you. It’s been several hours since I let him relieve himself on my cigarette break. Go right on up.”

The elevator delivers me to a corridor carpeted to muffle footsteps. Sniper’s door is opened by a keypad. The code is 1967. That’s the year Toronto last won the Stanley Cup.

But, hey. This is Ontario. Half the security codes and ATM-machine PINS might be 1967. We love our hockey.

“Woof!” says Rufus, leaping from the couch. It’s a happy sound, and it’s accompanied by a full-body tail-wagging. I drop down and show him the love. He gyrates and sniffs and bounds around. See what a good boy I am? his body language demands. I’ve been home alone for hours and I didn’t eat Daddy’s furniture.

“You are a very good boy,” I agree. “The best. Why don’t you find your leash so we can go for a walk?”

He gallops off, and I stand, turning toward the immaculate kitchen at the far end of the room. The island countertop is completely bare except for two things. A fruit bowl I picked out to match my client’s dishes.

And a white card, tented on its edges.

I cross the room because I can’t see what’s written there. As I approach the card, I find there are two words inked onto it.

For HotTiE.

When I yank the card off the shiny surface to study the lettering, there’s something underneath. Two tickets. To tomorrow night’s home game.

In row D.

I let out a little whoop of joy a split second before remembering that there’s a security camera in here.

Rufus barks in agreement with me. Sheepish now, I zip the card and those tickets very carefully into my jacket pocket.

I take Rufus out to the park, running all the way there. And then I text Jenny. Change of plans. Come to the game with me tomorrow night. Just scored a pair of excellent seats.

Reeeeeeally, comes her instant response. And how did that happen?

It’s top secret, I try. But who am I kidding? She’ll have me spilling the whole story the instant I get back to the office.

Really, who could keep it in?

I’m weirdly nervous the next night. As if I were actually about to meet Matt Eriksson. Which I’m not. I’ll probably never meet him. But I take a little extra time in the ladies’ room anyway, applying lipstick as if for a date.

Back at my desk, I send Jenny a text. Leaving now. Meet you at the main doors in 20! Then I tuck my keys and phone into my bag, preparing to depart the office.

But there’s one more big decision to make. Jersey or no jersey? That is the question. And I’ve been waffling on this point all day.

On the one hand, a good fan always wears her jersey to the game. And, fine, I’m a little superstitious. The one time I forgot my jersey, my boys lost.

Yet my jersey says ERIKSSON across the back. And just on the outside chance he knows which seats he gave me and looks to see if I’ve used them, I’d rather not out myself as a superfan. Even if my tongue hangs out every time I see his face on TV, I need to at least keep the appearance of professionalism so long as we’re working together.

What to do?

I’ll miss the puck drop if I worry much longer. So I shove the jersey into my oversized bag and leave my office, flicking the lock shut before I pull the door closed.

Outside, in the bullpen area where the other Fetchers sit, I take a quick glance around. Dion is quarterbacking the night shift, and he looks up to give me a salute, which I return. That’s good news for me. Dion is a solid employee who rarely contacts me with problems.

Fetch is open 24/7 in order to serve our rich customer base at any hour. We charge more for services after eight p.m. and before eight a.m., too. It makes good business sense. There are five Fetchers on duty tonight, including Dion.

Since it’s an even-numbered day, I’m on call tonight. There’s a small risk I’ll be yanked back to the office to solve a problem during the game.

But everything looks quiet in the bullpen, so I make my way toward the door. Just before I exit, I notice the strip of light under Jackson’s door. Since I’m the one on call, I’m a little surprised that he’s still here at seven thirty. A problem, maybe?

It’s just four feet or so down the hallway to his door. I lift a hand to knock, but then stop short when I hear voices.

“The property looks great,” Jackson’s voice says. “It’s a first-class place. Melinda went with me, and she loves that neighborhood. It’s beautiful over there.”

My heart plummets. Melinda, huh? I’d heard whispers that Jackson was dating someone. It was bound to happen eventually. But they’re looking at real estate together? Already?

The freak-out I’m having almost prevents me from hearing more. But then I hear my ex’s father speak, and it starts to dawn on me that I’ve misinterpreted something.

“...Great foot traffic,” Mr. Emery is saying. “The income level in that neighborhood is even higher than here in Yorkville. You’re gonna make a mint.”

“But we’re not ready to expand the business,” Jackson hedges. “The timing just isn’t right.”

“And whose fault is that, son?”

In the brief silence that follows, I feel a chill on my back. Jackson’s father is the most argumentative person alive. And Jackson isn’t very good at telling him where to shove it.

“Dad…”

“Buy her out, Jack. Do it now. You can’t grow your business if Hailey is still riding your coattails.”

The chill I’d been feeling becomes an arctic gust.

“Now that’s unfair,” Jackson says softly, while I quietly die on the other side of the door. It’s good of him to come to my defense, but the fact that they’re having this conversation at all makes me want to howl. “Fetch is as much Hailey’s business as it is mine.”

“Which is why she might jump at the chance to cash out,” his father presses. “The way you two have things set up, the girl has to be cash poor. What if I lent you a half million to send her on her way? You could have Fetch offices in four cities by a year from now!”

It’s awful how easy it is to picture myself pushed aside. Mr. Emery never wanted Jackson and me to start this business, but the minute we became successful he’d tried to muscle in as an investor. We always turn down his offers.

At least, we always have until now. But now that we’re divorced, maybe I don’t know Jackson’s mind so well anymore.

There is movement behind the door, and the fear of getting caught unsticks me. I take two quiet steps backward, spin around, and exit as fast as I can.

Dashing out of the office, I hurry down the set of exterior stairs, not even pausing to admire the brickwork and the antique iron sconces. I love this office, hidden just out of view of Yorkville’s multimillion-dollar real estate. And I love this little company I built with my ex-husband.

They can’t buy me out. I won’t let them.

As I stomp down Scollard Street toward the subway station, my heart is full of angry thoughts. Screw you, Mr. Emery. I never rode Jackson’s coattails. Damn that man! He never liked me.

When I say he never liked me, I mean never. Even when I was seven years old and climbing trees with Jackson in the backyard, he used to curl his lip at me. He let me know at an early age that I wasn’t good enough for his only son, that the tomboy daughter of a middle-class single mother would never belong in his millionaire household.

Many times during the past year and a half I’ve reminded myself that the only silver lining to getting divorced at twenty-seven is not having Herbert Emery as a father-in-law anymore.

My rage carries me into the subway station. But by the time I’m swiping my Metropass at the turnstyle, my anger is already giving way to the heavy drag of sadness.

I am, after all, the only person I know who co-owns a business with her ex-husband. It’s weird. I’ll admit it. And it’s not like we’re silent partners, either. I see him every day at work. Or almost every day. We don’t share a home anymore, but it wouldn’t be fair to say that I’ve moved on.