Page 7 of Small Town Sparks
Or his community spirit, or penchant for philanthropy, or possession of a beating fucking heart.
Melanie claps her hands together with an ear-splitting squeal, her expression dripping with shameless triumph. “Wonderful! I knew we could count on you forsomething, Shiloh.”
I press my lips together in a pathetic excuse for a smile and slouch down in my chair, already regretting my promise. By the time the meeting finally adjourns, I’m convinced I’ve developed a stomach ulcer the size of a prize pumpkin.
I grumble to myself all the way home, beyond irritated that I let Melanie get to me. This is just like that time she convinced our group in eighth-grade chemistry thatIshould do our entire midterm project by myself, because I was the smartest and anyone else’s contribution could just bring our grade down.
Nothing. Ever. Changes.
By the time I make it through my front door, I’m a storm of bitter rage. I slam it closed behind me and throw my purse to the ground as if doing so could release even the tiniest fraction of my frustration.
No such luck.
I’m anxious and seething and I’d punch a hole through my wall if I thought I had the money or skill to fix it again afterwards. But I don’t, so I resort to pacing back and forththrough my tiny living room, chewing on my thumb nail while my cell phone feels like a lead weight in my other hand.
“Get a grip, Shiloh,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a phone call. To the Manhattan office of your estranged stepbrother. No big deal. He’ll saynoand hang up, and we can all forget this stupid idea was ever born.”
I take a deep breath and hit the call button before I can chicken out. Of course, I had to Google the number for the reception desk. Dominic Blackwood isn’t saved to anyone’s contacts in this town. The ringing seems to go on forever, or maybe it only trills a few times? My heart is pounding too loud to decipher the difference.
“Blackwood Enterprises, how may I help?”
Fuck. It’s really happening.
“Um, hi,” I try desperately to swallow around the thick wadge of anxiety stuck in my throat. “I’m trying to reach Dominic Blackwood. Could you redirect me to his office, please?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood doesn’t accept external calls that haven’t gone through his assistant. Would you like her extension? I’m sure she can schedule a call for you when Mr. Blackwood has space in his itinerary.”
“No, no, thank you. Please just put me through to Dominic. I’m his…I’m his sister. Tell him it’s Shiloh, he’ll take the call.”
There’s a pause on the other end, I can practically hear the receptionist raising her eyebrow, contemplating whether or not to just hang up on me.
Please, do. Then I can tell everyone I tried.
“One moment, please. I’ll ring up to his office now.”
Double fuck.
Hold music suddenly blares from my phone speaker. It’s some generic jazz that sounds like it was composed by an AI with a vendetta against human ears–and I resume my pacing. Rapidly running out of thumbnail to chew on, my free handfinds its way into my hair, nervously tugging at the tendrils that have fallen loose from my haphazard bun.
“Well, well, Shy Girl. To what do I owe the displeasure?”
I freeze mid-step as that voice, cool and controlled, rakes down my spine as if he were standing in this very room. My jaw automatically clenches at the stupid nickname he used to taunt me with when we were preteens. I don’t respond immediately, my mouth suddenly drier than an ancient tome in Avalon’s haunted Fairchild Manor library.
“Hello?” he prompts, impatient as ever. “I don’t have all day. I canhearyou breathing.”
I close my eyes and swallow the embarrassment. “Yeah, Dominic, hi. I’m here.” I cringe almost to the point of pain as I stammer through my greeting. I’m already picturing him leaning back in some fancy leather desk chair, probably wondering what cosmic joke has led to this mortifying encounter.
“Yes, okay, now we’ve covered that part,” he throatily chuckles. “You’re the one who made the call. Get to it, I’m busy.”
My head just keeps spinning as I try to conjure up a coherent sentence. “Yeah, uh, sorry. I’m calling about…about the Avalon Halloween Ball? I don’t know if you remember it. But, um…our sponsor pulled out and now we’re having some major funding issues, and I was sorta hoping…”
“Let me get this straight,” Dominic cuts in, every word laced with disdain. “We haven’t spoken to each other inyears. And now you’re calling me, out of the blue, to ask for money? For acostumeparty?”
Alright, dude. Put it like that andof courseit sounds ridiculous.
I run my hand through my hair again, fighting the urge to rip every last strand from my scalp. “It’s not just some costume party. It’s a fundraiser for the school–the one I teach English at. And it’s…it’s tradition. Keeping town spirit alive and…andstuff.”
“Town spirit and stuff,” he repeats slowly, as if talking to a patient with late-stage dementia. “How quaint. I’m sure my father would be thrilled to throw company money at such a noble and vital cause. Really saving lives, aren’t you?”