Kathleen O'Reilly - Nightcap

No way. No freaking way that Cleo Hollings had done this. She was at the bargaining table. She couldn’t have done it. Women didn’t pull this crap on Sean. Ever.

“The mayor’s office? You’re sure?” he asked enunciating carefully, wanting to know exactly where the blame belonged. It would only take one short phone call from her. Thirty seconds or less. Yeah, she could have done it. And she had been mad. Tired, cranky… frustrated. He remembered those sleepy eyes and got himself aroused once again, which only made him madder. So Cleo Hollings really wanted to go head-to-head with him? Fine.

“Posted a notice on the door, it’s all here in black and white. Not serving drinks tomorrow, Sean.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he answered tightly. “We’ll have you opened before happy hour.”

“Are you sure?”

Sean’s smile wasn’t nice. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

STRIKE NEGOTIATIONS were stalled, and Cleo came back to her office in a foul mood. The lead negotiator had started by yelling at her, Cleo had yelled back, and things went downhill from there. When she returned to the bull pen where her offices were, Sean O’Sullivan was there waiting. He looked flushed, heated with anger and…yes, even then, resembling Mark Anthony.

This no-life stuff was starting to fry her brain.

“You had one of your little flying monkeys shut down the bar, didn’t you?” he ranted, striding into her office, daring to read her the riot act— her —in her own office. Suddenly his hotness factor didn’t matter so much, although he did have a great angry voice. Good tone, a lot of malevolence and that trace of New York that made most people fear for their lives.

Belinda, one of her interns, came and stood in the doorway. “We tried to stop him, but he knows the security guards. I’m sorry.”

Cleo looked at Belinda, looked at the man. Pointed to Belinda. “I’ll handle this.” Belinda didn’t look happy, she never looked happy, but she obeyed.

And then Cleo turned to the matter at hand. Sean O’Sullivan. “We’re in the middle of a strike and I’m supposed to be running point with the transit authority. Do you honestly believe I have time to mess with you?”

“Somebody did.”

“Not me,” she said, defending herself because she was tired of everybody accusing her of everything. Undeservedly. Sometimes she deserved it, but not today, and especially not this.

He held up his hand, his eyes puzzled. “You didn’t do this?”

“Nor did any of my little flying monkeys, either,” she said, with a tight smile.

The man took a long breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets, but not before she noticed the fists. Somebody had a temper.

“Someone from this office shut the bar down.”

Tony, intern number two, appeared in the doorway, and asked, “Need help, Miss Hollings? I know your meeting with the mayor is coming up. I can kick this guy out,” he said, ignoring the fact that this guy could take him down in ten seconds or less. Tony was like that—loyal, yet short on brains. He’d go far in city government.

“It’s a bit late for that, Tony. I’ll look after it, thank you for trying.” Tony gave Sean one more look and then left the office.

Cleo glanced at her watch. Tony was right about one thing, the mayor was going to be here any second, waiting for an update. “You will leave. Now is good.”

The stranger slammed her door shut, and settled himself on her couch as if he planned to stay. He looked around the room, the picture of casual indulgence. “I don’t care if you have time or not. Somebody in this office is screwing up my brother’s life and I’m not happy about it.”

“Nobody from this office is interested in your bar. I have a meeting with the mayor.”

“Still haven’t fixed that strike yet?” he asked, and this time, it was her hands that fisted.

Jackass. Mark Anthony? Fat chance of that. Mark Anthony would never question her governing skills, not even if he thought that Cleopatra had sabotaged his fiefdom. Okay, maybe then.

“So if there is a strike that’s keeping everybody so busy,” he continued, “how come someone from this office, someone from the health department, someone from the historical society and somebody from the state liquor authority are all out posting a notice on the door at my brother’s bar?”

Cleo’s eyes narrowed at that. Out of habit, she turned her angry voice into her soothing constituent voice. It wasn’t easy, but a necessary job requirement. “I can’t do this at the moment, but I promise that I’ll look into it as soon as the strike is over.”

“Gee, now I think I’ll sleep better,” he snapped back, seeing her soothing constituent voice for what is was. A sham.

“I like you better when you’re nice,” she ventured, which was a half truth. She liked him better when he was nice, but he got her insides all tight and humming when he wasn’t. Disturbing, yet true.

“Most people do,” he responded, and then pulled out a phone in the middle of her office, as if he owned the joint.

Cleo pointed at the door. The man smiled back.

Jackass.

“Mike. It’s Sean O’Sullivan. How you doing? How’s the wife? Really, what is this, number four? Getting busy, aren’t you? So listen, talk to me here. I’m running down to the station at Prince Street, late for court, you know how it goes, and I race down the stairs, and when I get to the bottom, it’s all empty, so I whap myself on the head for being such an idiot that I forgot about the strike. You guys are killing me here. You know what you’re doing to my career, and don’t laugh….”

Cleo watched him. Fascinated. He was a lawyer. It explained much. But who was Mike?

“I know you don’t have anything to do with it, but what’s the real holdup on the strike?”

“Yeah, mayor’s a dickhead, I know, I know. I didn’t vote for him.”

Sean stood up, and began pacing around the office as he talked, completely taking over the place. He ignored her Rutgers diploma on the wall, ignored the press pictures next to it, ignored the picture of Bobby McNamara at his inauguration and even ignored the half-knitted afghan that she hadn’t stitched on in ten years, but still kept her warm when absolutely necessary. He ignored everything, including Cleo.

“Pay raise of ten percent? That’s nutso in this day and age, Mike. Why don’t your guys take something less? I don’t know. Five seems reasonable to me.”

Two seemed reasonable to Cleo, but she started to pay closer attention. Mike, whoever he was, seemed to know things.

Sean nodded, stopping a moment to tap the mayor’s bobblehead on her desk, which nodded back. “They’re holding out for seven?”

Hell would freeze first. A seven percent raise? Was everyone in this town insane? Probably. Including her.

But she wasn’t stupid. She scribbled a note and shoved it at him.

Pension?

He took it. Nodded. “Okay, so what about the pension stuff? What if the transit authority pulled a Detroit, and put some money into a kitty, letting the unions fund it after that?”

Establishing a trust? Oh, creativity. Cunning. And it would save billions in the long run. Cleo liked that. She really, really liked that.

She scribbled a number on the paper and Sean jacked his thumb higher.

Cleo motioned her thumb down.

Sean scribbled a counter number on the paper, and Cleo pulled out her calculator and started running numbers. This could work. She looked at him with surprise. He noticed and flashed a cocky grin as if she should have never doubted him.

“I know, I know, the transit guys are whackjobs, too, but you think they’d bite? They should bite on that. I want to ride the subway again, Mike. It ticks me off. This is my city. Besides that, we’re a few weeks away from Thanksgiving. You got all those kids wanting to see the parade, the giant balloons, Santa Claus. Come on, Mike, those guys can’t disappoint the kids. Santa Claus uses the subway, too, and the kids know it.