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“She seemed to be in better spirits earlier when she asked me to zip her up, so I’m hopeful.”
The thoughtless snapping of the screen writing utensil doesn’t even register until the man across from me is cackling like a supervillain.
“Ready to talk about the fight you two had?”
“We didn’t have a fight.”
“Not one you won.”
Another hard glare is mindlessly given.
“Perhaps I should just ask her tonight.” He adjusts the collar to his white button-down shirt. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind complaining about you over cigars and whiskey.”
“She’s not working tonight.”
“She is.”
“Since when?”
“Since I thought it would be mutually beneficial for both of us.” His casual announcement is followed by Clark entering the room with an unopened package. “She’s a familiar, reliable, point of contact that I don’t have to worry about trying to oversell products or atmosphere or interfere in our business endeavors for her personal gain and she benefits financially as the sole service attendant for the space we’re occupying. ” The object is wordlessly offered to me. “I know she needs the money. This allows her to earn it versus simply cutting her a check that she wouldn’t accept anyway.”
“How the fuck do you know she needs money?”
“How the fuck do I know the woman responsible for giving you blue balls that doesn’t have her own computer, apartment, or reliable vehicle needs money?” Additional amusement plasters itself in his expression. “Wild guess.”
Grumbles of discontent prompt Clark into inquiring, “Still in a sour mood?”
J.T. and I deliver opposing retorts, ultimately sparking a small smirk to appear on the older male’s face.
“Have you spoken to Miss Winters?” He folds his hands behind his back as I discard the tablet and broken stylus back onto the table to focus on the piece of mail. “Expressed your apologies?”
“I have nothing to apologize for.”
“You never think you have anything to apologize for,” the face of my company scoffs at the same time he rises to his feet. “And that is the real problem here.” He works to button his suit jacket closed. “I put up with it because you’ve been my best friend since we were eight and my boss since I was eighteen and I know the difference between the hero and vigilante, but that doesn’t mean you’re not occasionally out of line. That you shouldn’t have to own your mistakes.”
Clutching the box tighter is done out of desperation for something stable to hold onto. “She wants me to be someone I’m not.”
“That doesn’t sound like Bryn,” J.T. instantly argues.
“How would you know?” I viciously snarl back. “She’s not your-”
The quirked eyebrow has him victoriously leaning forward.
Smirking.
Baiting me to finish the misplaced proclamation. “Not my…what, Wes?”
My mouth refuses to move.
I can’t quite answer the question.
Because she has become his friend.
Another person he can speak to that he clearly trusts.
And he has become hers.
She confides in him.
