Kathy Altman - Staying at Joe's

Damn Joe Gallahan and his miserable excuse for a motel, anyway. She was the injured party here. She was the one with the grievance. Yet there he had stood, acting all smug and superior, like the advertising hotshot he used to be. Though to be fair, despite the unruly, sun-streaked hair and construction worker getup, the hot part still applied. Or maybe it applied because of those things.

Good grief. Could she be any more pathetic?

She pulled out onto the highway, shaking her head over Hazel Catlett swooning over Joe’s bare chest and Audrey Tweedy knitting her brow over his protein consumption.

Joe Gallahan, still a sensation with the ladies. Her giggle turned into a groan and her fingers clamped tighter around the steering wheel. Sudden tears blurred her vision and she blinked, panic overtaking frustration. Time to pull over before she wrecked her car. Or worse.

Two minutes after passing a sign indicating a picnic area ahead, she parked in a small gravel lot and made her way along a path that led through a grove of shaggy pine trees down to the lake. Arms wrapped around her waist, shoulders hunched, she lingered above the beach, squinting across the choppy, platinum waters toward Canada.

He knew what he’d done. That confused look on his face? Had to be an act. He knew.

Mist-laden air swirled around her, flashing rainbows whenever the spray caught the waning sun. She dragged in a deep breath, smelled fresh water, decaying fish and seaweed. Over the hissing rush of the surf she heard a series of echoing thuds—oars, maybe, banging against the rim of a rowboat? Another breath, and gradually her panic began to recede. Despite the occasional drone of a car traveling the road behind her, she felt more alone than she had in a very long while.

Which was ridiculous. She was on edge only because she was used to having half a dozen people demanding half a dozen things from her, all at the same time—usually during her lunch hour. This “being alone” thing...she never did handle that well. She needed to get back to work. Back to her old self.

Though if she went back without Joe her old self would be out pounding the pavement, looking for a job in a bleak economy. Her stomach gave an unpleasant wriggle.

Maybe that’s why seeing Joe upset her so much. At Tackett & Pike, she was doing what she wanted to do. What she’d struggled to learn the skills to do. She reached out to the nearest tree and snagged a pinch of pine needles. Rolled them idly between her thumb and forefinger, releasing a sharp, sweet scent. Yeah, that was why she’d dreaded this visit.

She steered her mind away from Joe Gallahan, sprinkled the needles into the wind and stepped out of her pumps. Cautiously, she ventured out onto the beach, the sun-warmed stones grinding and clattering beneath her. A glint of green caught her eye and she bent over to get a closer look. Her cell rang, and a glance at the incoming number roused a sigh from the deepest, darkest pit of her belly.

She thought of the produce stand she’d passed on her way into town, pictured the heaping quarts of strawberries lined up for sale. She pasted a bottle of rum, a tray of ice and a blender into the picture, bit back a whimper and answered her phone.

“Mr. Tackett.”

He grunted. “See, the way you just said my name right there, that tells me you don’t have good news. And I need good news, Kincaid. The company needs good news.”

The man was doomed to disappointment. Unfortunately, so was she.

“He’s not interested, Mr. Tackett.”

“Make him interested.”

She’d get right on that. As soon as she solved the energy crisis and invented a toilet seat that put itself down.

“Why don’t you arrange for the client to contact Joe directly?” She bent over, left palm braced on her knee, and scoured the beach for another glimpse of that green. “Mr. Mahoney would have more success talking him around, seeing that Joe’s—” a chauvinist pig “—more likely to respond to a man.”

Tackett’s laugh was sly. “You and I know better.”

Her eyes fluttered shut and her chin sank to her chest. What had she been thinking, all those months ago? She’d compromised her professional image by getting involved with a coworker. A coworker with a reputation for being a player.

Tackett’s disapproving hum dragged her back to the here and now. “Did you offer him the bonus?”

“It made things worse.”

“Because you didn’t do it right.”

She held the phone away from her ear and hefted it in her hand. She looked at the lake, and back at her phone. If she threw it just right she could probably get four, maybe five good skips out of it. But it wasn’t worth losing her job over. Losing the promotion sucked enough.

“Mr. Tackett, I know how to negotiate a deal. The thing is, both parties need to be interested.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“That he wouldn’t consider it.”

“Bastard’s holding out for more money.”

She had no trouble recalling Joe’s contempt at the mention of a bonus. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what? The cliché about everyone having a price is only a cliché because it’s true. So figure out Gallahan’s price.”

Trouble was, she already knew it. And she had no choice but to pass that information on to Tackett. Because if he found out about Joe’s proposal before Allison told him about it, it wouldn’t matter if Joe came back to T&P and brought a dozen big-name clients along with him. She’d still be out of a job.

So, while crossing her fingers and envisioning a giant neon sign endlessly flashing the word NO, she told Tackett about Joe’s proposal. He interrupted before she had a chance to tell him she’d rather spend a winter in Greenland.

“There’s a multimillion-dollar account at stake, here. Mahoney refuses to work with anyone else so I don’t care how you do it. Hammer a nail, bake a cake, perform the dance of the seven veils. Just get Joe back here. Take the two weeks. Stick to him like syrup on a pancake. And, Kincaid? Don’t come back without him. Do what it takes, you hear? You show up two weeks from Monday without Joe Gallahan, you’ll be clearing out your desk.”

Her stomach dropped to her knees and her neon sign went from flashing NO to BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, SUCKER.

She rolled her lips inward and disconnected the call. She had to go back. She had to cave. To him. Her head drooped and her spine sagged. How did she get herself into these messes? After several moments of pointless self-pity she found herself scanning the rocks at her feet.

Before she did anything else, she’d find the source of that glint of green. Maybe she’d snag herself a good-luck charm—she needed all the help she could get. She hitched up her pants and dropped into a crouch, blinking against an annoying eyeball burn.

There. With a quiet squeak of glee she scooped up the square of tumbled glass. The stone felt sleek and cool against her skin. She stroked her thumb across the surface worn smooth by the water.

Her phone rang again. She glanced at the caller ID, lost her balance and almost fell on her ass. Forget the strawberries. Straight rum would do just fine.

The strident sound continued. She rose out of her crouch, her thumb hovering over the connect button. But only for a millisecond.

No way she could handle this. Not now.

Seconds later a much-too-cheerful chime signaled the caller had left a voice mail. Nerves prickled in her chest as she pocketed the piece of polished glass, entered her password and held the phone to her ear.

“Where’s my money, bitch?”

CHAPTER TWO

OH, NO. OH, no, no, no, no, no. Staring blindly down the rocky expanse of beach, Allison listened to the remainder of the message. Her mother had hit Sammy up for another two thousand. He’d staked her, even though he’d promised to cut her off. And she’d lost it all playing blackjack.