Beer Goggles Anthology Page 8

  “Not when I’m drunk. I’m downright accommodating. It’s my turn for a question.”

  “No.”

  “It’s only fair.”

  She sighs. “Fine. What is it?”

  “Why is Billy Chinlow on the list?”

  “To see how well you take a punch.”

  I think she’s joking? “That doesn’t seem ethical. Or legal.”

  “He won’t be on the list anymore. Nor will he be employed. Do you want to press charges?”

  “Is this another interview question?”

  “Are you more or less obnoxious sober?”

  I shrug because I don’t know the answer to that. “My turn again. I want to know more about Myra.”

  “I told you, I’m—”

  “Irrelevant. Yeah, whatever. We both know this interview is a disaster. Can we move past all the bullshit now?”

  “You understand this job you want is ninety percent bullshit, right?” Myra says. “You know who our last hire was?”

  My gaze instinctively searches for the answer and finds it leaning into an intimate conversation with a young woman who does not appear to be a Vanderjoust. Myra follows my attention and releases a breath.

  “Bingo. You’ve met Chad. He’s our ideal candidate.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you should be telling me this.”

  “Why? It’s my job to find the right fit for the position and our company.”

  “Is that why you got me drunk? So all my dirty laundry would come out?”

  “I didn’t get you drunk. You did that yourself.”

  I study Chad again. He probably has an awesome business card. Bet he has a car allowance and profit sharing guarantee too. I wish I cared about that shit. I’d have this job in the bag if I did.

  “Nate?”

  “Yeah?”

  A sudden chill runs up my arm. Shocked, I glance down to find her perfectly manicured nails tracing my skin in a confusing, euphoric pattern.

  “I wish I could dance with you. I wish I could kiss you,” she tells me, pupils confirming every word. Her hand is on my chest now, climbing, defying her orders based on its aggression. Her eyes lock on my lips. Do I actually have a concentration in business ethics? Because I pull her in. My tongue finds hers, and I know she’s been waiting for it. Now that she owns me, my god, she takes as much as she can handle.

  My chest burns from her touch as she slips her hands under my shirt. Clawing, claiming, breaking rules she probably swore she’d never break. But I’m not going to help her cling to her bullshit, and do everything in my power to screw ethics. I know how to please women, not because I’m a player, but because even drunk I can read others better than myself at times. This woman needs me right now. She’s craving something raw. Something real, and I’m all in.

  “Nate, wait! Wait,” she breathes, pulling away, but her eyes are not waiting. They already have me naked on a bed somewhere, rocking her beyond the phoniness of her world. Screaming in ecstasy as she lets go for the first time in her scripted life. No, what we have here is training, denial, pure and simple. Probably a lifetime of it if I had to guess.

  “I won’t report you,” I promise, taking her mouth again. She groans against me, digging in and pushing me away at the same time.

  “You won’t even remember this tomorrow,” she says.

  “Not possible.”

  She hates that she can’t stop exploring me, that my body belongs to her and she wants every inch of it. When her hand finds all that I have to offer, she lets out a mind-blowing gasp. My tongue becomes downright violent in her mouth.

  “Just…” She can’t finish her thought as I knock it from her head with a well-placed massage under her silk blouse.

  “Okay, stop! Stop.” She’s not at all confident as she jumps away, breathing hard. Her eyes. Not Myra Myra, but Myra, wide and haunted by what’s happening. By how much she wants something she’s not supposed to have. “We should go find Irma and Arthur,” she tells me as she straightens her top and fancy scarf.

  “Who?”

  “Number nine.”

  I sigh. This woman…

  “Sure. Why the hell not?” First I have to readjust my pants. Irma and Arthur don’t sound like people who would appreciate the evidence of what this woman does to me. Myra watches me, openly studies the sign of what she could have had. She’s flushed as she grips her pretentious folder and forces her eyes back to its irrelevant contents.

  “You ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Yep. That’s me inhaling one last glass of something that isn’t Myra.

  Chapter Eleven

  Irma and Arthur

  “Oh, honey! What happened to you?” Irma is horrified by my condition.

  “This is Nate Hanover,” Myra says. “He’s had a rough night.”

  “So it appears! Was he mugged?”

  I miss the answer. Pretty sure it’s no. Then there’s a recitation of the Declaration of Independence. Or maybe that’s what’s going through my head. Abe Lincoln and his epic hat. No wait. He was the Civil War one. George Washington. Ben Franklin. Thomas Jefferson. Those dudes kicked ass.

  “Will you stop singing the ‘Star Spangled Banner?’” Myra snaps in my ear. I do, but miss whatever comes after that. It’s something tragic from dear Irma. Does this sweet old lady know my malady is poor choices and way too much alcohol? I’m afraid she thinks Myra rescued me from a cardboard shelter in the parking lot. I should correct her.

  “I don’t live in cardboard.”

  Myra smacks my arm so I guess they didn’t need to know that.

  Irma’s husband is asking me a question now. I know this because his lips move and then everyone is quiet and staring at me. I nod. That’s what people do when faced with questions. I even nod again just to be sure, which totally works because we start moving again. Away from the music and lights this time.

  Another question is barked at me and I nod again. Not sure who asked that one. Not even positive it was a question. It’s quiet here, dark as the twinkle of the party recedes behind us. Arms support me and push me forward in rigid determination toward…I have no idea. I nod again.

  “Nate?”

  That’s Myra. Definitely Myra. I smile. Oh, Myra Myra. She’s amazing. My dream girl.

  I don’t know what she says next but I’m totally on board with it. Whatever it was must have involved a car because now I’m in the backseat. Guess what? Seatbelts are fucking sexy when Myra Myra reaches over to brush one against your body. She has trouble with the buckle. I make sure I’m no help.

  “Cantaloupe,” she says. Or something like it.

  God, I love fruit salad. I could live off that shit. Myra swimming naked in a giant bowl of cantaloupe.

  Then the car starts to move and…

  The smell of pancakes is beyond overwhelming. It’s one of those scents you love even when your body is hell-bent on puking. Hangovers totally suck because it looks like those little treats have hearts melted into them. No one’s ever made me heart pancakes before. It’s then that everything comes flooding back. Dream job in the tank. Dream girl probably in hiding. Yep. I’m just a dream case study for a self-help book.

  “Morning, hon. Glad you could join us. You hungry?”

  The sweetest version of Mother Goose waves a spatula at me like she freaking owns the role in a Christmas movie. I wish she were wearing an apron but settle for her blinding knit sweater instead.

  “No thank you, ma’am,” I say, scanning for something more helpful like a time machine.

  “Oh, please. I’m Irma to you. You’re Nate, right?”

  I nod.

  “Are you looking for your valuables?” Her utensil directs my gaze to the table where a familiar phone and wallet wait for me. Guess I’m not kidnapped after all. Although honestly? Might have been a relief at this point.

  “Thank you. Do you happen to have any coffee?”

  “Of course.” That’s a male voice, a man-Irma in belted pants up t
o his chest with a comb-over that raises all kinds of logistical questions. He extends a hand and tells me he’s Arthur. I remind him that I’m Nate Hanover to which he assures me he’s aware. Probably a good thing considering he put me to bed in his house. Yes, I experience a new kind of nausea as I fill a mug with coffee.

  “How’s the head this morning?” Arthur asks. Irma is making eggs to go with the adorable pancakes there’s no way in hell I’ll eat.

  “Not great. I’m sorry for being such an inconvenience, sir.” I slide onto a stool at the breakfast bar with my cup and phone. I glance at the display but there are no messages I’m eager to return. I put it to sleep and stare into my mug instead.

  “Not a problem at all. Just glad you’re okay. That’s one heck of a shiner you’ve got there, son.”

  Right. Forgot about that. I wish I could forget the rest of the list of humiliations as well. Myra Myra. She’s probably shredding my resume and contact info as we speak. Strange how I’m less concerned about the job than the thought of her not wanting me to have it.

  “Yeah, it was an interesting night,” I say. Irma and Arthur don’t need my life story to feed me pancakes and coffee. Besides, I suspect they already know more than they’re letting on. How much do you have to know about a person to let him sleep in your potpourri room?

  “So it seemed. Myra said you were here for the junior V.P. job.”

  The coffee becomes tar in my mouth. Fan-freaking-tastic.

  “Yeah. Well, it was a learning experience. I suppose I’m—educated.”

  “That’s life, isn’t it? One giant learning experience. Goodness knows I’m still learning.” He holds up a very large crossword puzzle.

  My head is in no condition for philosophizing. So, yep. Another nod.

  “Thank you for letting me crash here. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as possible.”

  “Nonsense. Not until you’ve had some breakfast at least,” Irma scolds. She drops a giant plate of food in front of me and holds out a fork. Only a heartless demon would be able to resist an offering from this universal grandmother I never had.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, pushing at the pile of eggs. These people must have been lied to. Maybe they think I was mugged by the most incompetent criminal of all time.

  “Myra should be back any minute,” Irma says, and my attention shoots to her. “Don’t look so shocked. My granddaughter just went to get you both some of that fancy coffee. She’s too hoity-toity to drink our store-bought beans. Young people. When I was your age, I was lucky to get any coffee.”

  “We drank tree bark.”

  “Had to pick the beetles out and everything.”

  Um…

  “Myra is your granddaughter?”

  “Yes, of course. You don’t remember all of this from last night?”

  No. I remember bourbon. I remember sobbing spiders. I remember getting punched in the face. Oh, and I definitely remember screwing everything up with their granddaughter. Remembering sucks.

  “Well, that’s okay, dear. The point is Myra’s friends are always welcome in our home. She’s such a terrific girl.”

  “She said I was a friend?”

  “She spent the night on the couch to make sure you were okay. I’d say she considers you important.”

  I swallow more brown sludge. A piece of paper catches my eye, and I squint at its contents. It looks like a list. Of names. Ten names to be exact. One more and I would have completed it. I hadn’t realized I was so close. Not that it matters anyway considering the disaster of the nine I did accomplish. I give up on trying to read the final challenge and turn back to my eggs. The least I can do is end on a high note with Granny Irma and pretend to eat them.

  The clatter of an old door draws our attention and I watch my dream girl move through the foyer with a cup carrier in hand. Her severe business attire has been replaced by jeans and a sleeveless top. Long dark hair falls in waves over her shoulders, and she has to know she’s slaying me. I’m pretty sure my jaw is on the floor as she advances with her liquid gold. The smile I get when she hands me a cup about ruins me.

  “Morning, sunshine,” she chirps, taking the stool next to me.

  “Morning,” I reply, totally proud of my ability to speak. “Thanks,” I add, all cool and smooth as I acknowledge her gift. Yep, that’s me. Mr. Smooth.

  “We’re going to go eat on the patio,” Irma says, filling two plates.

  “Thanks, Gram.”

  I’m sober this morning and can do things like catch Arthur’s wink as he follows his wife through the sliding door.

  “Your grandparents, huh?”

  “My grandparents. Nice outfit, by the way.”

  “Thanks. You’ve never had the pleasure of enjoying a grandpa-themed stripper?”

  Her eyes sparkle, and I love that she’s imagining me. It makes me wish…

  “Myra.” I stop because how do you apologize for the last fifteen hours? I shake my head instead and sample the new coffee. It’s amazing.

  “That was quite the performance you put on last night,” she finishes for me. She’s still smiling though. She takes the list and smooths it out in front of us.

  I grunt and scan the crumpled piece of paper. “At least I spared number ten, Myrtle McAllister, from my humiliating presence.”

  Myra grins, and I toss her a sharp glance.

  “Not exactly.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Myrtle McAllister

  “Hi. Myrtle McAllister. I prefer Myra,” my tormentor tells me with a perfect hand outstretched. “Wouldn’t you if you were named Myrtle? Great-great-aunt or something.”

  I don’t move.

  “Nate?”

  “McAllister? As in McAllister?”

  “Carver McAllister is my father.”

  Her father? Oh god. My head crashes onto my arm and now I’m certain there’s a nice deep, dark cave somewhere with my name on it.

  “I’m…I…” I turn to stare up at her in horror. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  Her devastating stare settles on me, and I wait in agony. “We’re not making you an offer, Nate.”

  I find myself straightening at the obvious. “Of course not. I wouldn’t offer me a marketing brochure for the road at this point.”

  She chuckles and rests her chin on her fist. Gazing? My god, she’s gazing at me.

  “You’re not the right fit. You know that as well as anyone.”

  “If Chad is your prototype, no, I suppose not.”

  “You’d be miserable.”

  “Probably. It’s fine. You don’t have to try to console me. I get it. I fucked up.”

  Her eyes widen. “Fucked up? Are you kidding? You were incredible. I’m not offering you a job because you’re way too good for this. My father wants corporate robots who are going to kiss his ass and worship dollar signs. A kingdom of Chads. That’s not you.”

  Am I the first person ever to smile at a rejection? I’m full-on grinning as I shake my head with a shy smirk. “No, not really.”

  “Exactly. You’d be great for McAllister Enterprises but my dad would crush you without blinking. I want no part of that. You need to find a position and a company that will appreciate everything you are and everything you have to offer. You’re too special for McAllister.”

  I sigh and meet her gaze. Wow. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We exchange a long smile.

  “So that’s it then. Thus ends the weirdest interview of all time?”

  She shakes her head. Sly wink, two fingers raised in reply. “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “There’s another opening I’d love for you to consider.”

  She silences my response with her perfect lips. Perfect hands slide into my hair in the most sweetly inappropriate caress of all time. Oh man, I am totally done with business ethics.

  “Myra McAllister.” I test her name on my lips.

  “I like Myra Myra.”

  Thi
s interview I can do. I’ve been training for it since the second she owned that conference room. I feel her confidence in my groin, or is that her hand? By her groans, she’s surrendered to my talent and the stunning expertise of my tongue. I’ve never wanted to work so hard to make a woman strain for air. Her hips conduct the Q&A, and my answers surge fire through each cell in my body. Hers too, from the way she jerks with my rhythm, harder and harder.

  “Nate…”

  I’m done talking. My mouth is way more convincing without words, and she tears at Mr. Talbot’s shirt until it’s litter on the floor. Her fingers explore her MBA stripper, eyes wild as mine devour my boardroom goddess.

  “You are so hired,” she breathes, and that’s when we start making our way to the stairs. Back to daisy-vomit window treatments and outdated potpourri. Back to yarn balls and dried oats. Back to where we should have started two days ago.

  Weirdest interview ever. But…

  My dream girl just offered me my dream job and dammit if I don’t accept.

  The End.

  About the Author

  I’m a writer, musician, and cat lover. I also have an alternative music obsession. Seriously, it’s a real problem.

  I write what needs to come out, whether it’s pain, tears, or laughter. I write people and relationships, about the beauty and horror of what we do to ourselves and each other. I write Love. Vengeance. Compassion. Cruelty. Trust. Betrayal. Forgiveness. Darkness, and the incredible way humans destroy and heal each other.

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