Staying at Joe's. Kathy Altman
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“She’s not here. She came by yesterday, delivered her pitch, I said ‘hell, no’ and she left.”
“Only you didn’t, did you? I talked to her afterward. She told me about your offer and I gave her the two weeks you asked for. Guess she decided to wait until today to seal the deal. So when she gets there, why don’t you set her up with some hard labor? None of that sissy stuff. She’s a cocky little thing—it’ll serve her right. And make sure she knows she’s staying with you. I’m not paying for a hotel when you can put her up at your place.”
With his free hand, Joe gripped the edge of the sink and watched his knuckles turn white. “Don’t play me, Tackett. I come back with her and she keeps her job. And you give her that promotion. And I want that in writing. Understood?”
“Let’s wait and see what you can do for Mahoney.”
“That wasn’t the deal, Tackett. You screw her on this and so help me God I’ll convince Mahoney to take his business elsewhere. Then I’ll convince him to take your staff along with him. And if that doesn’t put you out of business, I’ll open my own agency and do it myself.”
“That’s not ethical,” Tackett blustered.
“You wouldn’t know ethical if it grabbed you by the balls.”
Joe let go of the sink and shook the ache from his fingers. While Tackett lectured him about proprietary information agreements, Joe heard a noise, like something ripping. He tracked the kitten to the bathroom, where she was attacking the cover of a paperback he’d tossed in the corner. He nudged her out with his boot and shut the door. Non-disclosure agreements aside, the threat he’d made was an empty one. He’d start his own agency the day Tackett aced sensitivity training.
He pressed the End button, cutting off Tackett’s monologue, and scowled down at his phone. How the hell did she tolerate that asshole? And more importantly, why? But of course he knew. The money. Apparently whatever she was spending her salary on was worth putting up with Tackett and his crap.
As much as he wanted to despise her for it, he’d once felt the same.
* * *
HE LIFTED HIS head and peered through the trees at the motel across the field. The field that didn’t provide the cover it once had, thanks to the meathead owner and his lawnmower. The dude had no idea he was wasting his time sprucing up this dump.
His breath knifed in and out of his lungs and sweat slicked his skin. Despite his jeans and sweatshirt and the seventy-degree weather, he felt cold as shit.
He huffed out a quiet snort. Make that cold as frozen shit.
No one came back around the corner. The coast was clear. The girl had seen him, but he’d bet that the adults had rolled their eyes and patted her head and discussed in hushed, condescending tones how she must have made it all up. All part of the parental conspiracy to eff up the kiddies.
A hot, sharp anger set his hands to shaking. He gripped his thighs and held his breath, started the usual silent count, felt the fury fade. No sense in unleashing it until he needed it. Slowly he rose out of his squat and leaned against the nearest tree, pine needles rustling under his feet. The uneven bark bit into his shoulder.
He should have backtracked as soon as he’d heard the truck. But he’d almost been inside. Almost had what he needed. And he’d almost been caught. He couldn’t blow this. Wouldn’t blow this. Next time, he’d know.
He turned his back to the motel, and made his way deeper into the sun-dappled woods.
* * *
JOE WASN’T IN #4, where she’d left him the afternoon before. Allison carefully made her way back up the sidewalk toward the office, stepping over and around the cracks that rendered the concrete path less than high-heel friendly. If she’d known what she was getting into, she’d have brought her cross trainers.
Maybe even a Taser.
Then again, what if she did fall and break her neck? She wouldn’t have to humble herself by accepting Joe Gallahan’s deal. And she wouldn’t have to learn how to use that drywall thingy he’d mentioned.
But she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of paying off Sammy, either.
She yanked open the office door and heard a faint buzzing sound as the door closed behind her. Tugging off her sunglasses, she stalked toward the counter. Behind it, a set of pocket doors stood closed. She assumed Joe’s office was in the back. Possibly his living quarters, too.
She eyed the bell, tempted to slap it a few times. But of course the buzzer had already alerted Joe he had a visitor. Antagonize him before she had a chance to announce she’d changed her mind? Kick things off by giving him a reason to change his? Not a good idea.
“Be right out,” he hollered from behind the doors.
She jumped, and dropped her keys. After scooping them up off a pretty hardwood floor, she took a closer look at the space around her. Brightly colored prints and a hanging basket loaded with purple and red blooms accented clean, neutral walls. A wooden bench under the front window, a floor lamp with a patterned shade and a brown-and-scarlet-striped runner in front of the counter added welcoming touches to an otherwise Spartan room.
Given the state of the motel’s exterior, she could only imagine the kind of work Joe had done to make the lobby look this good. Had he done it all himself? And when had he learned to do this stuff, anyway? He’d bought his D.C. condo furnished and his only contribution to the décor had been a few photos of him and his brother.
Regret pinched at her heart. She reached out to touch a flower.
Behind the pocket doors came a thump, then a curse, then a series of rattling thuds that shook the walls. By the time Joe groaned, Allison had already shoved open the doors.
He was stretched out on the floor, facedown, hands under his shoulders as he prepared to push himself up. She rushed forward and squatted next to him.
“You all right?” she asked, even as a familiar bitterness climbed her throat.
“Yeah.” He pushed himself onto his knees and lifted his head, his face inches from hers. She stared into his red-rimmed but clear, blue gaze—clear being the operative word. Her surprise must have shown in her eyes because his narrowed. “Not alcohol related,” he said flatly. He sat, his back against the wall, and slowly exhaled as he stretched his legs out in front of him.
She dragged her gaze away from a body that in the past year she could see had scored some heavy-duty muscles. She blinked a few times, and concentrated on the floor around them. She saw nothing nearby that could have tripped him up.
“What happened?”
He ran a hand through his hair and pointed. “That.”
He was indicating the room at the end of the short hall—she could see shelving and one end of a couch, so she assumed it was his living room. She shook her head, on the verge of asking him what he was talking about, when a tiny orange tabby hopped around the corner and bounced toward them.
Joe scooped up the kitten and tucked it into his shoulder. The tabby proceeded to chew on his hair.
“You have a cat,” Allison said stupidly.
“One determined to break my neck, it seems.”
She stood, and backed away. That Joe had fallen for a kitten—in more ways than one—disturbed her to no end. Joe wasn’t a kitten kind of guy. Dead plants were more his speed. She thought of the geraniums thriving out in the lobby and bit her lip.
“Mind holding her? So I can get up without busting my ass?” The cat dangled from his large hand.
The little tabby was adorable. Still Allison had no intention of letting those claws anywhere near her silk blouse or linen pants. She took the cat gingerly in both hands and held it out in front of her, as if she’d accepted a ticking bomb.
Joe