And I don’t like not understanding the people I work with. It makes it harder to predict them, harder to manage the outcome.
But I’m starting to think I’d like to give him a chance.
* * *
That night, in my home in Henderson, I indulge in a few of my mid-week guilty pleasures. On the drive, I stop for takeout fromone of my favorite restaurants, a little Turkish cafe that makes amazing sandwiches and a Basque cheesecake that I can never resist.
Distance usually helps. A few hours, a change of scenery, something to reset the mental file I’ve already started building on a client. Tonight, it doesn’t quite stick.
My plan was to have a quiet night at home, maybe watching a show or reading one of the books I bought on my last visit home. When I pull up to my house, though, my friend Cara’s waiting on the porch.
“I brought wine,” she says by way of greeting.
Of course she did. Cara has an uncanny sense for when I’m about to spiral into overthinking a subject I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
I lift my bag of food. “I only have enough for one. You should have told me you were coming over.”
She shakes her head. “I had a late lunch with a client.”
I fish my keys out of my purse. “Want to talk about it?”
Cara follows me into the house, cradling her bottle of wine. “No. Maybe. I don’t know, this new boss…” She shakes her head.
“Come on, tell me about it. And then you can listen to me vent about my new client.”
“Ooh, the Hulk-Smash hockey bro?” Cara kicks off her sneakers and pads off to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew.
“He’s not as bad as all that,” I admit, somewhat begrudgingly. I follow her to the kitchen, where she’s already pawing through the drawers. Cara and I are relatively new friends; I met her on my first trip to Vegas, before I’d decided to join Ezra’s firm. She’s an East Coast transplant, too, from New Hampshire. Neither of us has fully adjusted to life in the desert, and even though I’ve known her for less than two years, I feel comfortable with her. She’s in middle management at a restaurant supply company that works with hotels on the Strip.Her old boss transferred to California a few months ago, and his replacement has been causing problems ever since.
Cara finally unearths the corkscrew and sets to work on the wine bottle. “How about we skip over my boss, and you can tell me more about the jock.”
“Owen is…” I pause longer than I should. That alone tells me I’m already in dangerous territory. I take a fork from the silverware drawer and turn it over in my fingers. “Owen is not what I was led to believe.”
“So, not a knuckle-dragging ogre?” Cara twists the cork free with a pop.
“Definitely not.”
“I can’t help but notice that you’re on a first name basis with the guy. Sounds like you two are getting friendly.” Cara pours a generous amount of wine into two stemless glasses. She sits down at my kitchen table, where she immediately curls her feet beneath her.
On second thought, I grab a second fork. Cara might have eaten, but no one is strong enough to resist the lure of the cheesecake. I join her at the table.
“I wouldn’t call usfriendly.Owen isn’t a big talker.”
“But?” Cara prompts.
“Buthe seems like a decent guy.” Which is not a complication I need. Before she can get the wrong impression, I backpedal. “He’s a pain to work with, though. You know that phrase, ‘like squeezing blood from a stone?’ That’s how I feel every time I try to talk to him. Why are guys so emotionally constipated?”
“They aren’t,” Cara says. “I’ve been hanging out with some of the guys from thatCirqtroop that performs at the Mona Lisa. They’re fantastic. Emotionally intelligent.Flexible.” She whistles and fans her face with one hand.
“Mm-hm. And how many of them are gay?” I bite into mysoujouksandwich, which is mostly cold by now, but no less delicious.
“Hey. A lot of them are bi.” Cara lifts her glass in a one-woman toast. “Theater boys over jocks any day, that’s all I’m saying. I mean,yes, they’re all fuckboys, but so are jocks. At least theater boys know where to find the clitoris.”
I choke on a mouthful of bread.
Cara smirks over the rim of her wineglass. “I’m just saying. Does your grunting jock have the slightest idea?”
“Believe it or not, I haven’t asked.Because he’s my client.” I take a swig of wine to clear my windpipe. “Besides, I’ve done my time. I’ve sworn off hockey players.”
