A Deal with the Devil by Elizabeth O’Roark

21

Later in the week, Hayes’s schedule gets so slammed he can’t get home for lunch. I have plenty to do, but it’s oddly lonely, without his visit to look forward to. When he asks me to meet him for a drink after work to discuss a project, one we could easily discuss via text, I agree without hesitation. I refuse to admit that I might miss him a little.

I’ve just reached Beverly Hills and found a parking spot when Charlotte’s psychologist calls. I blow out a quick, frustrated breath. I don’t know why she’d call me instead of my mother, and also…I just want to see Hayes.

“Is this a bad time?” she asks.

“I’m about to meet my boss,” I tell her, omitting that I’m meeting him at a bar. “But I have a minute.”

I climb out and don’t bother locking the door. No one’s stealing this car. Even criminals feel sorry for me.

“I’ll keep it short,” she says as I begin walking down the street. “Your mother is not doing well. She was drinking during the last family therapy session and isn’t treating Charlotte’s issues with the care they deserve. I think some changes are necessary.”

I release a small breath, thinking what now? At the rate we’re going, I will owe the Fairfield Center a million dollars by the time this is done.

“What kind of changes?” I ask.

“Your mother needs to attend AA, and you or your sister will need to assume supervision of Charlotte when she’s released.”

I step into the intersection, ignoring the blare of a horn as I cross. “But...we both live out of state,” I argue.

“Charlotte said you were coming home when she gets out,” Dr. Shriner says.

I laugh unhappily. “For a week.”

I walk faster, bracing myself for what’s coming. I’m pretty sure I already know.

“Well, unless something changes, I can’t, in good conscience, release your sister to your mother’s care.”

The argumentative side of me wants to ask what legal grounds she has to hold Charlotte somewhere that costs me seven grand a month. But it’s sort of beside the point. If my sister needs more than my mother can give her, someone else needs to be there, and I already know who it will be. I’m the one with the flexibility to move home, not Liddie. I’m the one who’s single and about to be jobless. What can I even claim is holding me here? I have Jonathan, an unrequited crush on my boss, and little else.

I take a deep breath, silently assuring myself it won’t come to that. I’ll talk to my mother and convince her to get her shit together.

Because if she doesn’t, it means I’m leaving LA, and Hayes, for good. How strange that leaving Hayes is what bothers me most.

* * *

He hasa drink waiting for me when I walk in. I toss back half of it the second I sit down.

He leans back in his seat. “You’re drinking like me tonight,” he says. “And while I greatly admire this change, I suppose I should ask if there’s something wrong.”

I shake my head. The last thing I want to discuss is the bullshit with Dr. Shriner, and for some reason, I particularly don’t want to discuss it with him. “Just a call from home. What’s this project you want me to work on?”

His gaze snags on me over the rim of his glass. “What’s wrong at home?”

“My mom’s been drinking a lot,” I reply, waving a dismissive hand in the air, “and the psychologist treating my sister has some concerns. It’ll be fine. Really. So, what’s this project? I assume it involves women and liquor, so I’ll go ahead and write those two things down.”

He hesitates before ceding to my wishes. “I’d like you to host a luncheon. So yes, both women and liquor should remain at the top of your list.”

The word host throws me off entirely.

“Just a light, catered meal on the terrace,” he adds. “I’ll set up some aesthetic services inside. It’s good for business.”

I’m guessing his “just a light, catered meal” actually means extravaganza for five hundred wealthy women with high expectations.

“I’m not asking this because I don’t want to do that much work, although I totally don’t want to do that much work,” I say, running my fingertip over the salt on my glass’s rim, “but why? House calls stress you out, and you don’t seem to get any satisfaction from it. You already earn more than you could ever spend, and you only seem to spend on food and alcohol, which I’m guessing you could afford on a surgeon’s paltry salary.”

“Perhaps,” he replies. “But it might not pay for you to take care of everything so I can enjoy my food and alcohol without the tedium of acquiring it.”

I take a sip of my drink and discover I’m down to ice. “Get a wife then. She’ll perform all your menial tasks for free.”

“I don’t know how many marriages you’ve seen,” he says, looking tired suddenly, “but believe me, there’s a price to be paid there too.”

It doesn’t surprise me that he has a sour attitude toward marriage, so I’m not sure why I feel disappointed. I can’t seem to stop wanting him to be someone he’s not.

Together, we map out the luncheon and then walk down the street in the fading light, the sky striped in sunset pinks and golds. He’s talking about his favorite island in Greece when he comes to a dead stop and points to a mannequin in a shop window, wearing a pale beige dress that fits like a glove. The cap sleeves and just-above-the knee length keep it from being overtly sexy…but it’s still a very sexy dress.

“You’d look amazing in that,” he says.

Just on sight I know it’s something I could never afford. “I could buy a year’s worth of ramen noodles for what it costs.”

“Try it on,” he urges, placing a hand at the small of my back.

“What would be the point?” I ask. “I’d have to sell my spleen to buy it.”

“No one wants your spleen, so please don’t accept any offers. Your liver, possibly. I can even help remove it. Just try.”

I’m still carping about what a waste of time this is when I reach the dressing room.

He leans against the door. “Make sure to let Uncle Hayes see,” he whispers in an intentionally creepy voice, which makes me laugh and also, weirdly, turns me on. I really do need to get laid if I even find this exciting.

I slip out of my clothes and pull on the dress…which is perfection. It skims my curves, the v-neck making my cleavage look ample without revealing all of it. My hair seems to gleam, my skin looks more golden, my lips rosy. After this long year of questioning myself, of wondering if everything I ever believed might have been wrong, I know this one thing for a fact: I look really good in this dress, like the sort of woman you’d expect to see on Hayes’s arm.

When I open the dressing room door, I can’t help but wonder if he’ll think so too.

“Do you like it, Uncle Hayes?” I ask in a baby voice, jutting out my hip. I meant it as a joke, a play on his creepiness, but he looks stricken in response.

“Yes,” he says gruffly, turning on his heel and looking at his phone. “You should get it.”

I huff in exasperation. “You made me go through all this effort for a dress I can’t afford, and you didn’t even look.”

He sighs heavily, still facing away from me. “The dress and the voice had an unexpected consequence,” he says through gritted teeth. “Will you please just get back in the fucking dressing room?”

It takes me a second to understand what he means by unexpected consequence. Shock is quickly erased by the mind-bending thought that I made him hard. Standing here in no makeup and bare feet. How is that even possible?

“Talking like a little girl does it for you, huh?” I ask, leaning against the wall with a smug smile. I intend to relish his discomfort as long as possible. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“You didn’t sound like a little girl,” he growls. “That’s the problem. You sounded like a very big girl in need of a...Jesus Christ. I’m waiting outside.”

He storms off, and I stare in the direction of his retreating wingtips in wonder. I really wish he’d finished the sentence. In need of a...shag? A spanking? My cheeks flush as I consider the possibilities. Thank God he doesn’t realize how open I’d be to any or all.

I finish dressing and find him when I walk out, standing by the register. I hand the dress to the sales associate and she begins hanging it in a garment bag as if she assumes I’m really buying a twelve-hundred-dollar dress. “Oh.” I wince. This is why I don’t try on shit I can’t afford. “I’m sorry. I’m not getting it.”

“I just bought it,” Hayes says, his voice tight. He still won’t look at me. “Let’s go.”

He takes the garment bag and begins walking while I scramble behind him. “No,” I argue. “I don’t need you buying me clothes. I’m not poor.”

“You’re pretty poor,” he says. He’s walking so fast I have to break into a jog to keep up with him. “And consider it my fine for objectifying you a moment ago. I realize I constantly objectify you, but I keep most of it to myself.”

I’m deeply reluctant to accept this, no matter how much I love the dress or love the effect it seems to have on him.

“Hayes, this is really nice of you, but I don’t even want a dress that costs this much. I’ll be too paranoid to wear it.”

“You’re wearing it to the luncheon,” he replies. “Consider it your new uniform. You’ll make every woman there want to up her game, because you already sell my work better than any portfolio or brochure could.”

“But—” I sputter. “Hayes, I told you I don’t want things from you.”

“Does Jonathan give you gifts?” he counters.

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Then I can too,” he says. We’ve reached my car. He holds the door as I climb in. “Just don’t wear it when you’re out with Sam.”

* * *

I wishthere was someone with whom I could share the dressing room incident and say, “what do you think it means?” I wish I could tell someone about the way Hayes makes me laugh, and the odd way I sometimes hurt more for him than I think he’s ever hurt for himself.

I could tell Drew, who’s been texting, but she’s in Spain right now and it’s the middle of the night. And aside from her, I’ve kept all of my highs and lows to a very small, closed circle—Liddie, Jonathan, Matt—and now for one reason or another, they’re no longer available to me.

That might be for the best, though. Because not one of them would approve of Hayes.