I like the idea of her using my card, can’t deny the subtle thrill that hits me when I imagine her fingers on it, handing it over in exchange for a dress, an outfit.
When she first walked into my office, I’d taken one look at her ill-fitting dress and prepared myself to call for the HR assistant. To dismiss the foolish notion of hiring someone like that.
And then she’d opened her mouth.
“Mr. Rourke.”
A slight, Midwestern roundness to her voice.Almostsouthern, in a way. The kind of sweet tone that offers you a glass of tea, that hovers in a small gas station on the edge of town, lingering long after the person herself is gone.
At once, Lucy Sullivan went from being just a too-young, too inexperienced potential assistant to being something far more interesting to me. Both like an untrodden patch of snow and a domino slightly out of line with the others.
I wanted to reach out, smooth down her hair, tip up her chin. Show her what shecouldbe, the beauty that simple order and luxury could bring out in her. Put Lucy Sullivan in a Dior dress and some lipstick, and she would be the domino still in line.
And yet, somehow, she was also the perfectly smoothed fur throw, just begging for a finger dragged upon it. The fog on glass you needed to disturb with a handprint.
I wanted to disturb her. To make that water ripple.
So, instead of following that first impulse—the one that definitely would have ended poorly—I went for a different approach. Admittedly, I shouldn’t have given her the product like that, or perhaps even at all, but I couldn’t help myself.
I needed to know if what I suspected was true. Wanted to see the look on her face when she opened it. And when she did—rosy cheeks, slightly parted lips, a sharp breath and questioning look?Fuck.
Lucy Sullivan, from small-town Missouri, has never touched a sex toy. Maybe never even seen one in person before today, before opening the box in front of me.
My hands itch to check my bank statement to see what charges she’s already brought to the account. Or will she return it tomorrow, having not bought anything at all?
Thatthought I don’t like.
As though the universe wants to deliver me a distraction from this girl—because that’s what she is, agirl—the music in my ear buds cuts out and is replaced with a droll buzzing on the bike’s stand.
Fatherflashes over the screen, a blank silhouette there as a placeholder for the man I would prefer never to call me at all.
“Dane Rourke.”
“Nice of you to answer,” he says, coolly, as his opening line. I grit my teeth. To deal with my father's constant calls, I only pick up every other time.
Of course, it would be better, I suppose, to not answer him at all, to block him, but I don’t have it in me to cut him off. The idea is about as likely as moving to Tibet and becoming a monk. Simply not an option.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, trying not to be curt, because if he thinks I’m being rude, the conversation will last twice as long.
“I suppose you’re busy with yoursexproject,” he says, and for a moment, Lucy Sullivan flashes to mind. But of course, he’s not talking about Lucy. He’s talking about Ember. My father thinks designing and selling sex toys is a lewd way to make a profit. And he’s had no reservations about letting me know that every chance he gets.
As though diamond-mining or exploiting the labor of factory workers is any more ethically upright than selling a product to affluent women missing the touch of a partner. In fact, Coleis working on a line for tandem use, which could even help to repair relationships.
“All I do is identify holes in the market,” I say, some version of the justification I’ve been making to him since we launched Ember last year. “And try to be the best at filling it.”
“I suppose,” he mutters, voice dripping with contempt. “And I heard back from Blake—I asked you to do one favor for me, Dane. He would have liked to have had you at the conference, and he’s done a lot for this family.”
I let out a low groan. There he goes, oscillating wildly between criticizing my current company by insinuating that it’s embarrassing, and asking why I’m not attending an international conference for pleasure-oriented businesses, further publicizing our products and my involvement in a sex company.
My shoulders tighten, and I instantly recognize the feeling of not being enough. Not doing enough, or the right thing, no matter how much work I put in.
The words are on the tip of my tongue. If he thinks so little of me, why does he insist on maintaining a relationship with me? Why does he call just to berate me? Surely there must be something else to entertain him in his retirement.
But then, he says, “Just be glad your mother hasn’t found out about this yet.”
And I’m reminded of the reason why I take his calls, and why he continues calling, and how I manage to tell myself that this recent crass rudeness might not actually be him, but simply the erosion of his brain.
Of course, he’s always been cold. Treating me like a project, pushing me to be the best I can be. But, then again, I owe my tenacity to him.
