Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) (3 page)

Chapter Three

“I need to talk to you.”

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m nervous when I say it and I’m nervous for Owen’s reaction. This is because of multiple reasons: I am fucking pissed. Like, really, legitimately furious. The fact that anyone could be moved from their job because of one complaint is ridiculous. But the fact that it’s because of someone’s personal life—any part of their personal life—is utter bullshit.

If I find out that my new boss, who I met all of four hours ago, was a part of the decision to “out” Remy, then I have to quit. I’ve never quit anything in my life and I’m not sure I’ll be that good at it—especially when it’s over principles and not, say, a pay raise.

Worst of all, Owen went out and changed out of his dress shirt and into his uniform polo, which makes me realize that he’s actually completely cut from marble and far more muscular than I realized. Between that and his face, he looks like an earnest and hardworking Greek god, like the kind of guy who brings his mom dinner when she’s sick, then heads off to a UFC tournament.

Dammit. I can’t let myself be distracted. I have to stay vigilant.

Owen, in the meantime, is looking at me expectantly as he lays out the cheap white paper plates that we’ve been storing on top of the fridge.

“What’s up? Where is everyone?”

I drop down into one of the plastic chairs and brace my hands on both my knees.

“I need to ask you a question,” I say carefully, forcing myself to temper my anger with something like professionalism.

Owen senses the seriousness in my tone or my body language, or both. He pulls a chair out and swings it around to straddle it backwards. The move is so unexpectedly sexy that I almost forget what I’m about to say.

“I spoke with Remy on the phone a bit ago—I guess he’s been moved to one of the senior centers. He said that’s where you used to be the supervisor.”

Owen smiles then as he nods. “It’s a great place. I can’t tell you how many times I won Scrabble championships over there. I’ll miss it.”

For a second, I just stare at him. Scrabble. That’s . . . not hot.

“Right, so . . . anyway. Remy is there now. Do you know anything about the circumstances behind the move? The switch? Like, why you were brought over here?”

Owen cocks his head for a second, his tan arms crossed and balanced on the back of the chair in front of him.

“Why are you asking?”

My heart stutters. Fuck. That means yes.

Then Owen shakes his head. “Look, honestly, I came into work yesterday and Burt Kensington was there with a few other people and they told me I was being transferred. That’s really all I know. A bunch of supervisors were shifted around.”

He shrugs, then stands up.

“It’s not a conspiracy theory, Rainey.”

I bristle at that.

“I don’t think it’s a conspiracy theory. I just . . . was curious.”

I don’t tell him about the phone call with Remy. I was going to. I wanted to. But now I have another thought—a thought that would need me to bide my time a little bit. And not show my cards to my new boss right away.

I stand up then and force a genial smile.

“I’ll go get everyone for pizza,” I say.

When I make it back to my office, everyone who was there before is still there, plus two of our preschool teachers, Brenna and Tim. I wave a dismissive hand at them.

“False alarm,” I say, trying to seem relaxed. I should never have overdramatized my potential quitting. This is what I get for hyping things up for the sake of drama alone.

“No, wait, what was Remy saying?” Shannon asks, her brow furrowed. “I mean, it obviously upset you because you said something about leaving, Rainey. No one is more devoted to this place than you are.”

I shake my head.

“It’s just been a long day, that’s all,” I say, feeling like a total tool for lying. The truth is that Remy, while vivacious and well-loved, is also pretty private. Telling the whole staff about his meeting and his new position would feel like a betrayal to him in the end.

Besides, I need to try and keep some semblance of order around this place—in about two hours, there will be nearly three hundred kids here and, as per usual, not nearly enough staff to handle them. That’s one thing I’m proud of about BYC—we never turn anyone away. You always have a place to go when home is the last place you want to be.

Well, and really, there are a lot of other things I’m proud of about this place. As my coworkers stand and start moving toward the—frankly—delicious-smelling pizza, I can’t help but remember how much I really do love it here. We’re all devoted—just like Remy, we put this place first. We put each other first.

Owen may be the Scrabble master, but he’s going to have a lot to learn when it comes to this place. I suppose it’s technically my job to teach him, but I’m torn between a loyalty to my former boss and a necessary allegiance to my new one.

In the end, it’s all about the kids. I know that Remy would agree. Maybe with a belly full of pizza and a chance to relax as a group, we’ll all look at things a little differently.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

When we all make it into the break room, Owen is standing at the front where a whiteboard is hanging. He’s holding a dry-erase marker in one hand, and I almost groan out loud. He really doesn’t get it, does he? He needs to give us a break to socialize before we actually start having legit work meetings. Pizza doesn’t create rapport. Gossip and laughter does.

“Welcome, everyone!” Owen says brightly. “That’s for coming in. I’ve called up some of the afternoon staff to join us as well—I just thought we could get together and chat about the center.”

I grab a slice of cheese pizza from one of the boxes, slap it on the thin disposable plate, and walk up to him.

“So, listen, you might want to let everyone eat first,” I suggest quietly. “Just so they can relax and settle in a little bit.”

“This won’t be hard or anything,” Owen argues. He tries to give an encouraging smile at the people around us who are, clearly, far more interested in the Bacon Lover’s than brainstorming.

I’m gonna have to take care of this for him, aren’t I?

I clear my throat.

“Hey! People!” I clap my hands. “Grab a slice and cop a squat so we can do this.”

I think Owen is mildly impressed by how quickly that approach works, but I’ve also worked with this staff, with very little turnover, for over a year. So, it’s not like I’m a new guy walking into a room of strangers and demanding participation. Then again, I’m not one to demand anything of anyone. And they know that.

As everyone settles down, I motion to Owen to pick back up where he left off, then sit in the closest chair and take a grudging bite of my pizza.

“So, obviously, this is a hard day,” he begins. As he looks around the group, I follow his gaze. He’s met with resistance immediately. People aren’t looking at him, or they’ve got their arms crossed over their chests in the universal symbol for “fuck right off.”

I brace myself, waiting for a superior, bosslike approach.

It doesn’t come. Instead, Owen grabs a chair and sits down.

“Look,” he says, dropping the marker on the table in front of him, “I understand that this sucks. I—I didn’t really know anything about Remy, but he sounds like he was a great boss and a great friend. I found out last night about this new position and now I’d really like to make the best of it. I hope . . . I hope that you could do the same thing.”

It’s a genuine request. I glance around the table and people seem to be listening now. Derrick has put his phone away—before, he was clearly playing a game or texting. Shannon is sort of smiling at Owen. The way her eyes scan over him, I don’t think his appearance has escaped her notice, either.

“So.” Owen slaps the table with both palms. “Let’s talk about how things work around here. Especially before the kids get here. What do I need to know?”

***

It’s a long list.

“Oh, and Priscilla. She’s twelve, but she’s got a little brother, Dominick, who she’s basically responsible for.”

“Don’t forget about Charlie. Fifteen. She self-identifies as female, but she’s getting a lot of flack at school and at home. Her father wants her to play football and shit.”

“What about Brent? I’m ninety-nine percent sure there are charges pending against him. Remy was trying to find out for sure before we kick him out for good. They’re juvie charges, but still.”

We go around the room and discuss the kids with the most troubled homes, the kids who’ve had run-ins with police lately, the kids who try to hide in the building when we close up for the night. Owen’s abandoned his plans for writing on the whiteboard. Instead, he’s scribbling everything we say on a pad of paper. With every story, every warning, every reminder, his eyes get a little wider and his pen moves a little faster.

“Okay, guys,” I say, holding up a hand. “I know Owen needs a good rundown, but we might have him running for the door before the kiddos even get here.”

Owen doesn’t say anything to that, but I can see by his smile that he’s feeling something like relief. He shakes his hand, which I assume is cramping after the marathon of notes.

“We’ve got thirty minutes or so until school lets out and I’ve got a half dozen phone calls still to make,” I say, looking at Owen expectantly. For a second, I think he’s going to protest so that it doesn’t seem like I’m calling the shots again. Instead, he just nods.

“Thanks, everybody,” he says, giving a sort of awkward wave before he looks back down at his notes. I let the rest of the staff file out before I clear my throat. Owen looks up and I raise a speculative brow. Or what I hope is a speculative brow. I guess I can’t really be the judge of that.

“You did good,” I say. “You feeling overwhelmed?”

He leans back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. His arms are lean and muscular. And tan. He purses his lips in thought and I force myself to look away. Lips are not something I need to be focusing on. Especially not on my
boss.

This is when it helps to have a boss who is adorable, but completely gay.

“I knew that the kids were the focus—hell, the purpose—of this place,” Owen says, looking up at the ceiling. “I guess I just didn’t take into account how much they’d bring with them in terms of . . . complications.”

I shrug. “Honestly, we’re unloading all of it on you at once. We find things out here and there. All of this is information gleaned over months of working with them. So you need to just sort of take in what you can. We’ll walk you through the rest.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Owen trails off, frowning, as he looks back through the first few pages of his notebook. “I’m trying to figure out the program schedule. Is it posted anywhere?”

I blink at him. “Program schedule?”

“Like where the kids are when,” he says as further explanation. I chew on my bottom lip.

“Yeah, about that—so, the city really would like us to have a more formal schedule. The problem is that we’re really an alternative for most kids. Another place for them to go when they don’t want to go home. But we never really know for sure if they’re coming in or not. They just sort of roll on in when they want to.”

Owen frowns.

“Well, then how do you know who to schedule? I mean, what if you put all the staff on for the night and no one shows up?”

I can’t help but bark a laugh at that, then give him an apologetic wave. “Sorry—I’m not laughing at you. Just trust me. We’re never, ever overstaffed. You’ll see.”

Own shrugs. “Okay then, I’ll take your word for it.”

I get up from the table. “We need to go unlock the gym. Basketball is usually the main attraction at three thirty when the high school lets out.”

He nods, but I feel his eyes on me as I approach. Just as I’m about to walk out the door, he clears his throat.

“Listen, I don’t know if this is weird or not, but I was wondering if you’d get some dinner with me after work.”

I just stare at him. He can’t be serious.

“I—I don’t think—I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to—”

“Oh, no, not like a date or anything.” Owen’s cheeks start to flush. The deep pink color moves up into his hairline as he clasps a hand around the back of his neck. “I just meant having a business dinner so we could talk about ideas—I want to bounce a few things off of you.”

He wants to bounce a few things off of me?

I have to try really hard not to laugh at the turn of phrase.

“Um, tonight isn’t great for me, actually,” I say, hesitating. Technically I have plans with my couch and my remote, but something tells me that spending a full eighteen hours with my new boss today really isn’t the best idea.

“What about Wednesday?” I suggest. At least that way I can miss out on Quiz Night at Dino’s, which Cyn and Carson both love and I can’t fucking stand.

Owen nods.

“Wednesday. Sure. It’s a . . . plan.”

He was going to say “date.” He knows it. I know it.

This might be the worst idea ever, but the nervous spark in my belly tells me otherwise. It tells me that he’s cute. It tells me that I’m single. And it tells me that dinner with Owen Marshall definitely wouldn’t be the worst non-date I’ve ever had.

Chapter Four

My Monday-night plans might have been with my living room, but they end up including a very weepy, very dejected Remy. He shows up unannounced at the apartment with red eyes, a wad of tissues in one hand, and a tub of ice cream in the other. I let him in immediately.

“So, you’re sure this was a gay thing?” I ask him for the third or fourth time. I feel bad questioning him, but, honestly, Remy is extremely sensitive and overdramatic. I’m not saying what he feels isn’t valid, but sometimes it isn’t the intention of the other person.

“I’m sure.” Remy scoops out another large spoonful of butter pecan and shoves it in his mouth. “They said that it was better for me to continue my employment surrounded by adults where I could ‘explore my strengths’ or some such bullshit.”

I exhale hard and shake my head. “I’m so sorry, Remy. I tried to see if our new boss knew about what was happening, but he honestly seemed as clueless as anyone. He was more like, ‘Hey, I’m working with kids now, what do I do next?’ I don’t think there was a grand plan to out you from BYC.”

He shrugs and leans back into the couch cushions.

“Honestly, Rain, I would quit if I thought I could find another job. But right now? In this economy? I can’t turn away from something full-time with benefits. I’d be a fool.”

I grimace at that, but I know exactly what he means. I would happily compromise my morals for medical and dental coverage. I’m hoping I won’t have to, but if the opportunity presents itself, it would be hard to leave a good job based on something I believe in, not something I need.

God, I hate admitting that shit.

“Anyway,” Remy sighs. “Jerry said I can move in with him if the job is too unbearable, which is sort of a consolation prize—boyfriend asks you to move in, but only because of homophobic job. It’s a pity-offer.”

I grab his hand and squeeze. “Don’t quit yet. See if working with the seniors is something you’ll enjoy. Owen said something about some really fun Scrabble tourneys.”

Remy’s eyes grow wide with a cross between fear and disgust.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

I shrug. “I like Scrabble.”

He pats my knee. “Of course you do, sweetie. You just hate live games—it’s why you’re so bad at Trivia Night.”

I groan. “I know, thank God I’m getting out of it this week!”

Remy’s brow shoots up. “How’d you manage that? Got a hot date?”

“Uh, no—actually . . .” I chuckle a little nervously. “I’m getting dinner with Owen Marshall. The new ‘you.’”

I pick at my cuticles for a second before looking back up at Remy. When I do, he’s staring at me.

“What?” I ask defensively. He shakes his head.

“Don’t be that girl, baby.” He wags a finger. “Don’t fuck the boss. I know you couldn’t play that shit with me, but that doesn’t mean you should try to nail the first hetero to walk through the door.”

I shove him.

“Shut up. It’s a work dinner.”

“Uh-huh,” Remy says, with long exaggerated sounds. I roll my eyes.

“Do you want to get pizza or something? Or are you subsisting on an ice cream–only diet for now?” I ask, hopping up to grab the phone. Remy glances at his watch.

“No, Jerry and I are getting late-night sushi. You were just a pit stop.”

“Fine,” I sigh dramatically. “Just use me and leave me.”

“As long as you know the rules, baby girl.”

He walks toward the door and I follow him, but he stops before grabbing his coat from the nearby chair.

“Hey, Rain? Do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure.”

He scrubs a hand over his shortly shorn hair.

“There’s an envelope of receipts in my desk—all of the expenses for this year’s after-school programs are in there, along with a few others. I’ll need them for the end-of-the-year tax reports. Can you grab them from my office tomorrow?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Remy beams, then kisses both of my cheeks before letting himself out. I considering calling for takeout, but pizza for two meals just sounds unappealing. I decide to heat up some chili from the freezer. That’s one thing I miss about having Carson around—we used to cook these really huge pots of food, stuff like chili and beef stew and spaghetti sauce, then freeze them into portions for later. Our Sundays were often cooking days where we spent the whole morning in the kitchen, then the whole afternoon on the couch.

And now that Remy is on his way to meet his boyfriend, my loneliness settles in like a deep, well-worn stain.

I spend the next few hours flipping through channels. There’s an
Ink Master
marathon on, which I love because it allows me to pretend I’m actually in the market for some ink. I’d love to do it, but my parents would have a conniption.

Yep. I’m twenty-five years old and my parents are still affecting my life choices. God, that’s so fucking sad.

Around midnight, Carson texts me about getting lunch this weekend. I stare at the words for a long minute. There’s nothing wrong with them—I mean, yes, of course I want to get lunch with my best friend. But the fact remains that we used to just be able to walk into each other’s rooms and ask questions like that. With a sigh, I tap out an answer and pad back to my bedroom.

But I can’t sleep. I toss and turn for at least thirty minutes, thinking about Remy and feeling terrible, then thinking about Carson and feeling sad. And then I think about Owen. I can picture the caramel highlights streaking through his hair and his eyes only a few shades darker. Once he’d stripped off the attitude, Owen ended up being pretty hot. Well, maybe not hot, but intriguingly attractive. Attractive enough that I start to reach for my vibrator and finish what I started this morning.

I consider stopping myself. Really? Masturbating to the thought of my boss? Am I really going to be the girl Remy accused me of being?

I flip the switch and a low buzzing begins beneath the blankets.

Yep. I am totally going to be that girl.

I yank my panties down with one hand and kick them off once they get closer to my feet. I inhale deeply, then close my eyes.

My office.

It’s the first thing I see. My desk, my chair, and me, naked and bent over the side so that my breasts and belly are pressed hard against the cold metal surface.

Fuck, this is hot already.

In my mind’s eye, Owen walks in. He’s wearing a T-shirt and worn jeans. No shoes. I realize that my hands are bound behind my back. It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about liking or wanting. But tonight, in my bed, by myself, I don’t think I’ve ever been wetter.

I slide the vibrator down until it presses gently against my mound. A surge of arousal shoots through me like a drug.

“Are you ready to accept your disciplinary action, Ms. Wallace?” imaginary Owen asks with a deep, husky voice. Imaginary me nods, unable to find my voice. Owen walks closer, pressing his jean-clad legs against mine. His already hard cock nestles into my ass. I suck in a breath.

Real-life Rainey spreads her legs further apart, then slides the vibrator down an inch further until it centers on my clit.

“How hard do you want to get fucked, baby?”

Owen’s voice is more of a growl than anything else. I whimper in response.

“So hard,” I say to him. “Don’t show me mercy. Just make me take it.”

In real life, these words would never leave my mouth. I might think them sometimes, especially during sex, but I’d never say them aloud.

In this fantasy, though? Well, I can be as submissive as I want to be. And I can like it as much as I want to.

I push the vibrator further into my wetness until it nestles right at the entrance of my pussy. I’m dripping wet and starting to breathe heavily and audibly.

One positive about living mostly alone? When I start moaning and crying out, no one can hear me.

Then again, the fact that I’m alone is also the reason I’m sliding the vibrator deeper inside me and arching my back without a partner to assist me.

I forget that and go back to Owen, with his sexy little smiles and eyebrow lifts. Owen, with his unassuming boyish good looks. I wonder if a guy like that would even want to play dominant to my submissive. It might be so far out of his comfort zone that he couldn’t even picture it.

But imaginary Owen can.

As I slide the vibrator inside my pussy, I angle the small secondary nub so that it hits my clit. I alter the speed to just a bit higher, then go back to my world—a world in which Owen Marshall, my boss, is fucking me stupid on my desk in my office. He doesn’t take his jeans off. He doesn’t take his shirt off. He slides his hard cock out of his fly and pulls my legs apart. Pressing a hand to the small of my back, he slams into me. No pretense. No ease. Just one hard cock and me, keening out a low moan of pleasure.

I increase my own pace, riding the vibrator in my hand as much as it’s riding me.

“Fuck, yes.”

In my mind, Owen’s gripping my hips in his hands and yanking me backward onto his cock. I want him to be fucking me in a way that leaves me no say, no ability to protest. Not because I want to protest, but because I don’t. Because nothing has ever felt so good or so necessary.

“Oh, God . . .”

Imaginary Owen fucks me hard. Real-life vibrator fucks me harder. And I come, climaxing in a way that leaves no doubt that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good orgasm. This one hits me like a ton of bricks, but some kind of delicious orgasm bricks. I let the wave wash over me and I manage to flick off the vibrator and set it to the side as I continue to ride out all the incredible sensations.

Of course, now I have no idea how I’m going to face my boss tomorrow. Somehow, right now, it feels like a small price to pay.

***

“Okay, Tyson, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

It’s Wednesday afternoon and I’m sitting on the old wooden bleachers in the BYC gym, which never cease to remind me of the years I spent in high school, cheering for the Southern High School Stingrays.

Now, though, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Tyson sniffs, then rubs his nose. There are faint streaks down his dark cheeks, and he’s clearly been crying, which is not typical for Tyson. My heart goes out to him.

I’ve known him since my very first day at the center, and he’s been one of those kids who has continually captured my heart over and over again. His mom works two jobs and his dad hasn’t been around since he was a baby. Tyson spent most of his time alone until his mom dragged him down to the BYC when he started high school. At thirteen, he was small—way smaller than the average freshman boy. His mother was terrified he’d get beaten up on the regular or, worse, recruited into a gang.

She asked us to keep our eyes on him. Asked if he could start coming every day after school. He’s been here almost every day since, save the week he had strep throat and the few days his mother took him to the Eastern Shore for a family get-together.

Now, though, with the sound of basketballs hitting the floor to punctuate our conversation, Tyson struggles to tell me what’s going on at school. He’s not doing well and apparently today was midterm.

“It’s just hard for me, man,” he says. He shoves his notebook back into his backpack and lets his head drop into his hands. “I’m gonna fail the ninth grade and my momma’s gonna kill me.”

“Stop it,” I say, tugging his notebook back out and looking down at Tyson’s interim report card. Three Ds and a C. It’s not great, but it’s not the end of the world, and I tell him as much. But Tyson just shakes his head.

“I just can’t do all the writing stuff. The history and English? It’s hard for me—all the spelling and grammar and stuff. It sucks and I hate it.”

I smile at that. Writing was always something that challenged me, too. I could never get my thoughts together. I could never outline or brainstorm in a way that made any sense at all.

“Tell you what,” I say, slapping both of my jean-clad thighs, “I’ll talk to some of the staff and see if we can put together some organized tutoring for you. That way, you can get some homework help after school instead of just playing ball all the time. How does that sound?”

He shrugs, twisting the ends of his cornrows with his thumb and index finger, but I know from past experience that that means he’s into the idea. I pat his back.

“Go play basketball.” I smile at him. “Then come get a snack. Did you eat lunch today?”

He nods, but makes a face. Tyson hates the school lunches, but his mother qualifies for free and reduced meals. Some days, he’ll come here with an empty belly and a terrible attitude. Those are days when the school served Salisbury steak or Unidentifiable Chicken Dish.

I take Tyson’s backpack with me, then drop it off in the common room where the kids leave all of their school stuff while they play. I take a peek at the pool, where Jenn is monitoring a free-swim session. Most of the kids don’t have bathing suits, so we ran a donation drive last spring for kids’ bathing suits. As long as they don’t take them home with them, we always have enough suits for the kids who want to swim. It’s a huge blessing.

As I walk in the office, though, Shannon has a look of utter disappointment on her face. The phone receiver is pressed to her ear. Frowning, I stop to listen to her.

“Yes, sir. Yes, of course. Well, I will relay the message . . . yes. Okay, thank you.”

She hangs up and I lean my hip against the front desk.

“What’s up? You look like you’ve lost your dog.”

She shakes her head. “No—that was the Maryland State Youth Council. They offered that grant you applied for a few months ago?”

“Oh, right!” I brighten . . . and then realize there’s a reason Shannon looks so dejected.

“Yeah—we didn’t get it.”

I’m disappointed. I can’t even pretend that I’m not. But I don’t want Shannon to see just how sad I am, so I just shrug.

“It’s fine, Shan. There are a million grants and a million different places we can go for money. Trust me.”

That seems to succeed in making Shannon feel a little better—enough that when the phone rings again, she answers in a fairly chipper tone. I take the opportunity to head back into my office and shut the door.

Dammit.
That’s the second grant I’ve applied for that’s turned into a dead end. The problem with city programs like ours is that they’re terribly underfunded. We need to keep applying for funds. That’s how we pay our staff. It’s how we keep our world together. It’s how we prevent this entire operation from falling apart.