Page 11 of Dirty Boss

“Well, we need to get together.” Deena pulled out her phone and gave it to me, telling me to put my contact details in.

I felt…nervous. A shy smile kept teasing the corners of my lips, and it wasn’t just the temperature in the coffee shop that made me feel slightly flushed.

I’d lost all my friends over the past year. Without money, I couldn’t dress like them, or go to the same events as them, or meet them on impromptu international vacations. The friends Ithought were close with me drifted away from me over the weeks that followed my parents’ disownment. It was like my fall from grace was a communicable disease; they might end up poor if they spent too much time with me.

So, for the past year, I’d been largely isolated. Deena was the first person to actually treat me like a person who had value. I had coworkers, sure, but most of the time I was so clueless about how things worked that they treated me like the village idiot.Itreated me like the village idiot. It was hard to feel confident when it felt like I’d been thrown on another planet and expected to know how to survive.

Deena was cool and confident and kind, and her offer of friendship made me feel like for the first time in a long time, I had something to lose. Ireallywanted to meet up with her again, if only to have someone to tell about my unprofessional antics.

We parted not long after. My laundry had been moved out of the washing machine and tossed into my laundry basket on top, which felt slightly violating, but what didn’t feel slightly violating these days? It’s like the whole world was designed to make me feel less than human.

I put the clothes in the dryer and went up to my apartment to make myself some food and grab a nap before my cleaning shift.

When I woke up, my clothes still weren’t dry. I frowned, put some more money in the machine, and turned it on for another ninety minutes. The next time I checked them, same deal. Growling in frustration, I took my still-damp clothes, brought them back to my apartment, and laid them over every available piece of furniture before rushing to get ready in time for work.

And realized I hadn’t made myself any food for dinner.

For the millionth time, my eyes prickled at the tiniest thing.

How did people do this? How did the majority of the population stay on top of everything that needed to be done?

I’d grown up with cleaners, nannies, gardeners, drivers, cooks, and assistants. There had always been a whole team of people ready to do all the things required to make life function, and sometimes I’d still found it hard.

Now I only had myself.

In a way it felt good; I’d learned just how much I could rely on myself in the past year. I’d figured it out. I’d survived…but I was exhausted. It was all the cooking and cleaning and rushing and work. I had to organize all my bills and utilities. Then I was supposed to work out, take care of my health (with what money?), and somehow form social connections?

Impossible.

By the time I made it to work, the glow of my interaction with Deena had faded. I was back to the reality of my daily grind. A sleek black sedan idled in front of the building’s entrance, and I hid my grimace at the sight of it. I used to have a driver who would sit there waiting for me. Now I had a subway card, a hip that clicked, and feet that always ached. I swiped my after-hours access card and entered the building, trying not to think about all the things I’d left behind.

The elevator doors closed as I pressed the button for the forty-second floor, and I squared my shoulders to ready myself for another body-breaking shift.

FOUR

VAUGHN

It was dark outside,and the building was quiet. I tried not to work late on weeks that I had Charlotte, but these days I couldn’t seem to get away before her bedtime. Guilt tightened my throat as I checked the time. She’d be asleep by the time I got home. Again. I walked out of my office and pulled on my jacket, then called the elevator. I watched the little screens above the elevators and stood next to the one most likely to arrive first. While the far car zoomed up from the lobby, the doors in front of me opened.

The stress of the business was getting to me. I’d actually gone back to Carmine’s like some sort of desperate stalker, wanting a hit of snark from my favorite waitress. Verbally sparring with her always made me feel better.

But she hadn’t been there today, so my stress had only wound itself tighter.

I made it to the lobby, and my phone rang. It was Jim, and he delivered news I’d already predicted: “The Midtown job is hemorrhaging money,” he told me. “Unless we turn it around, and quickly, nobody’s going to touch us.”

I grimaced. I could inject some cash into the company myself to get us through a rough patch, but that would be a red flagfor any investor. I had to present a healthy company if I wanted access to bigger jobs.

“The subcontractor with the faulty equipment?” I asked.

“Legal has just sent them a breach of contract notice.”

My grimace tightened. Just what every investor wanted—legal troubles. “Can we paper over the Midtown problems with some of the other jobs?”

“I’ll find out. It isn’t guaranteed to stand up to scrutiny, though. Especially not the people you’re courting.”

“All right. Thanks, Jim.”

If I didn’t fix these problems—and quickly—there would be no access to back rooms and politicians’ ears. There would be no security. The company would stagnate, maybe even crumble. No one would want to hire us—we’d be radioactive after such a big and public failure.