“I appreciate you, um, looking out for me.”
“Looking out for you?”
“Yes. When I was panicking. You were great at… taking my mind off things.” I try for a smile. “I said I needed someone to tell me what to do, and you, um, certainly delivered on that front. But I think it’s best if we call it a one-time thing, yeah?”
Davis stares blankly back at me. I’m not surprised, my voice is going up at the end of every word like I’m Powerpuff Girl on helium.
“A one-time thing,” he repeats slowly, and humiliation churns in my gut
Oh my lord, heneverwanted more. Itwasjust a charity dry-hump. And here I am basically giving him a breakup speech.Abort! Abort!
I turn my smile up to eleven. “Anyway! Thanks again. I’m gonna go finish… some accounts stuff. Have a good shift!”
I flee to the office and collapse in my chair, head in my hands. Just when I think my life can’t get more humiliating…
I try to shake it off, wringing my arms and wiggling in my seat, but my eye catches the wastepaper bin. Davis’s underwear is still there, light streaks visible on the dark fabric.
So fucking hot.
“No! Control yourself, Cece,” I snap.
I don’t have time for hot twenty-four-year-olds. I have a plan. I have to prove everyone who doubted me wrong. I have to save my best friend from her downward spiral. I have to drink fifteen litres of cranberry juice, so my lady business is in tip-top condition for seducing the man of my dreams while his ex-wife chokes on chardonnay-flavoured jealousy.
I grab a juice out of the minifridge and chug it so fast I choke. Red liquid sprays everywhere, covering my laptop, phone and the stacks of unpaid bills. But most of it lands on a folder sitting at the top of my in-tray.
‘Urban Hotel Development and Business Plan,’ it reads in bold typeface. And underneath, in smaller letters: ‘Client: Cecelia Taylor. Prepared by Davis Sanderson.’
Davis made me a business plan. For an urban hotel.
My heart leaps in my chest, but I don’t know if it’s because of the sweetness of the gesture or the sanctimony. Is this Davis’s way of telling me I’m doing a shit job of running the bar?
A notification lights up my cranberry juice splattered screen. Another message from Will Sharpe:
You are coming, right, Cecelia?
I shiver. That was the plan.Isthe plan.
16
Ada
No matter where I am, it’s mid-afternoon at Pukekohe High. There’s ninety minutes until chemistry ends, and I can go home, but the bell never rings. I’m stuck, surrounded by assholes, watching the clock to eternity.
I drink, but I can’t get drunk. I vape, but I don’t get high. I sleep, but I never rest. Mostly, I do what I’m doing now; lie flat on my back in bed, my arms crossed over my chest, and listen to depressing sonatas. I pretend I’m a vampire hiding in my crypt, waiting for a sign that it’s safe to emerge.
Nothing comes.
The reunion kicks off tomorrow. Cece and I are supposed to drive to Pukekohe tonight. I haven’t even started packing. How can I? I’m dead.
From the speaker on the dresser, Spiegel im Spiegel plays, the mournful notes stretching across the room like they’re trying to hold me in the semi-darkness. I let them penetrate my mind, send my misery soaring.
Jake calls. He texts. He says the same things in writing he said inperson. It all means nothing. I can’t think of him without thinking about her. Jenny fucking Wallis. The clotted, piss-soaked tampon that just won’t flush.
She got my Instagram account banned. A thirty-day suspension for posting ‘sexually explicit content’ and a warning that further infractions would lead to its deletion. As most of my professional contacts reach out over Instagram, Queen Twat has me over a barrel again. Big fucking surprise. She’s got the luck of the devil, and I’ve got the luck of used cotton balls.
If I needed any more proof, it came yesterday. Betty called to say our investigation into illegal labour at Thompson Farms is dead in the water. She used every trick she had to access Thrasher’s payment system, but apparently, it’s more encrypted than NASA. So is his bookkeeping program and every other online entity associated with the farm.
Suspicious? Sure.
