The Lineup Read online

  “That’s not necessary,” I say. “Don’t really want to get HR involved.”

  “You’re such a tight-ass,” Lindsay says. “It’s not like you’re hitting on Jessica; we’re just gabbing like good friends.”

  Jessica pushes her glasses on her nose and folds her hands together. “With all due respect, I think I should leave the gabbing to you ladies. I don’t want to make Miss Domico uncomfortable.”

  “Why?” Lindsay asks, leaning in like a rabid beast, looking for nourishment. “Is your sex life insane? You’re a fresh twenty-three, right? What’s it like to be young?”

  “You’re young, you idiot,” I say to Lindsay. “Twenty-nine is not old.”

  “It’s not twenty-three,” she mutters.

  Before Lindsay can get into the fine details of Jessica’s personal life, I say, “Jessica, before you take off, can you please look at this charge? I have no idea what it’s for. It’s a ten-thousand-dollar charge.”

  Emory’s mouth falls open. “You don’t know about a ten-thousand-dollar charge on your credit card? I’m pretty sure I’d know what I was wearing, what I smelled like, and the exact time I charged ten thousand dollars to my credit card.”

  Smelled like? Eww.

  Lindsay nods her thumb in my direction with a smart-ass smile. “Rich girl problems.”

  Ignoring them, I point to the charge with my mouse when Jessica rounds my desk. “The Lineup, what is that?”

  Lindsay and Emory both snort at the same time, covering their faces in tandem.

  Uh, am I missing something? Oh shit, is it some weird porn website? I’m not an avid watcher, but after a few glasses of wine, sometimes I like to jump online and have a little fun. Did I buy some baller subscription without remembering?

  Immediately a trickle of sweat starts to stream down my back from the thought of Jessica knowing about my “extracurricular activities” outside of work.

  “Uh, you know what, never mind, I think I remember.”

  “Do you?” Lindsay asks, a full-on grin spread across her face.

  “Ten thousand dollars? Damn, Dottie, I didn’t know you were that adamant about winning a date.”

  “Winning a date? What are you talking about?”

  Please don’t say it’s a dating website, a dating website I spent ten thousand dollars on. If that doesn’t read desperately single, I don’t know what does.

  “Miss Domico, it was for the fundraiser you told me to donate to.”

  Ohh . . . thank God.

  Wait . . . what fundraiser?

  Twirling the end of my ponytail with my index finger, I casually say, “Remind me which one again?”

  “Frankie’s I believe? You said it was on your desk. The day of the Briar Hurst meeting.” My stomach drops, recalling that morning and what I did. “I couldn’t quite find anything on your desk, but then I saw your computer screen.”

  Oh.

  God.

  Nipples.

  Winking fucking nipples.

  My vision starts to tunnel, and my skin feels like it’s shrinking as both Emory and Lindsay laugh in front of me.

  No.

  Please don’t tell me I donated ten thousand dollars to go on a date with Jason Orson.

  “I assumed it was what you were talking about. Was I wrong?”

  Lindsay wipes her eyes. “Oh no, Jessica. You were so, so right.”

  “I don’t think you could have been more right,” Emory adds.

  Confused, Jessica looks between us. “Am I . . . missing something?”

  Unable to comprehend what happened, I place my head in my hands and take deep breaths. Ten thousand dollars, how many entries did that gain me? I’m guessing a whole fucking lot.

  “Miss Domico?” Jessica’s worried voice pulls me back into the present.

  I give her a curt smile. “Wrong charity, but that’s okay, Jessica. It’s fine. I wasn’t clear.”

  Mortification falls over her features. “Oh my gosh, Miss Domico. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe”—she sucks in a short breath, her eyes watering—“I can’t believe I made such a horrible mistake. I . . . I can pay it off. Take it out of my paycheck.”

  Ten thousand dollars to Jessica is not pocket change. It’s probably half her rent for the year.

  “No, it’s really okay. I planned on donating anyway. That’s why I had the tab up.”

  “I think you’re being kind to me right now for an awful mistake.” Her lip quivers.

  With anyone else, I probably would have fired them over such a thing. They don’t say I’m ruthless for no reason, but Jessica? No way can I lose her. She’s the reason I haven’t lost my mind working this job. God, she must be mortified to not only have made this mistake, but in front of two of my friends. I know what that’s like, trying to impress women senior to you.

  I look her in the eyes and say, “It was a mistake, poor communication, and something that won’t happen again, right?”

  “Yes, of course. Never. I’m so sorry. I feel awful.” A tear slips down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away. “I’m so sorry. Please let me make it up to you. I’ll stay late for as long as you want with no overtime.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve worked more hours than anyone in this office besides me. I won’t take away your pay for your hard work. But next time, if something isn’t where I’ve said it should be, please clarify before you act.”

  “Of course.” She steps back and takes a deep breath. Clasping her hands together, she asks, “Is there anything else I can get you ladies?”

  “We’re good. Take the night off, Jessica.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.” She gives me a small smile, one that barely reaches her eyes, and then shuts the door to my office quietly.

  “Jesus,” Lindsay says, pulling food out of the bags. “That was awkward as shit.”

  Leaning forward, in a whisper, Emory says, “My ass cheeks were nervously clenched that whole time. Poor Jessica.”

  “Poor Jessica?” I whisper back, not wanting her to hear me. “What about me? She fucking donated ten thousand dollars to Jason’s charity under my name.”

  “Yeah, that part was great. I think you need to make Jessica employee of the month. I feel bad for her screwup,” Lindsay says, “but I don’t think it could have worked out more perfectly.”

  “Now we just have to hope she gets picked,” Emory says with glee.

  “That’s true.” Lindsay hands me my steak kabobs with a side of grilled veggies. “His date was a hot commodity. Every teacher at Cedar Pine donated twenty-five dollars for a chance, even the married ones.”

  “My spin class was very enthusiastic about the opportunity,” Emory says. “I think your chances of winning are slim.”

  “You think?” I ask, the dread building in my chest finally easing.

  “Total long shot.” Lindsay dips a pita in some hummus. “There is probably a one percent chance you’ll win.”

  “I can live with one percent,” I say, feeling much better.

  She’s right. Thousands upon thousands of people most likely entered to win, so just because my donation was large, doesn’t mean I’ll actually win. Who knows, maybe there’s a mega fan who donated even more, giving them more entries to the contest.

  I’m fine.

  One percent chance.

  I can’t be mad with those odds.

  * * *

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  No answer.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. BANG.

  “Open up, I know you’re in there,” I call through the metal door that leads to Emory and Knox’s apartment. “I have all night. I’ll wait. It’s not like I have a big meeting to prepare for. Nope, I don’t have to entertain my father or anything, I have all freaking—”

  The door swings open, Emory stands on the other side with a robe wrapped around her body, her hair a complete mess.

  “Dottie,” she breathes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sure
, I would love to come in,” I say, plowing right past my friend and into her kitchen where I know Knox keeps a few beers chilled.

  I’m normally not a beer person, but right now, it doesn’t matter what goes into my body, as long as it’s alcohol.

  “Is everything okay? You seem like you’re on the verge of a mental breakdown.”

  I give my friend a slow once-over and ask, “Were you having sex?”

  Emory smooths her hair down. “Foreplay. We weren’t quite at the penetration part yet.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” Knox says as he walks into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of sweats.

  I’m not one to gawk at my friends’ boyfriends, but it’s hard to keep my eyes off Knox as he makes his way to the fridge and pulls out a beer for himself. He takes mine from my hands, cracks the top open, then his, and follows it up with a clink of our bottlenecks. He leans against the wall of the kitchen, his fine body on fire with every move he makes.

  As starting shortstop for the Bobbies, his body is fucking amazing.

  Really, really hot. Emory is one lucky girl.

  “This better be good, Dottie,” he says between sips.

  “Need I remind you, I’m the reason you got Emory’s phone number in the first place?” Back in college, when Emory was on a boy hiatus, Knox turned to me for a little help, and I had no problem handing him the information he wanted, as long as he took good care of my friend.

  He eyes me from over his beer bottle. “Damn, how long have you been holding on to that one?”

  “Thought it would come in handy one day.”

  “Fine.” He chuckles. “You’re forgiven.”

  I look between the two of them. “So I guess the sex ban has been lifted?”

  “All it took was one brush of my bare breast against his naked chest and he was mine.”

  “Don’t try to be cool in front of your friend.” Knox walks up behind her and wraps his arm around her waist, placing a sweet kiss to her temple. “She terminated her lease, and then rubbed her bare breast on my chest.”

  “She doesn’t need to know the details.” Addressing me, Emory asks, “Why are you pounding on our door as if you’re about to be hounded by a pack of zombies?”

  “Oh, you know . . .” I casually pull a piece of paper out of my purse and lay it flat on the table. “Because of this.”

  As a couple, they lean forward and take in the printed congratulations email.

  Yeah, fucking congratulations!

  “Oh. My. God.” Emory covers her mouth right before she starts laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” I yell, snapping the paper away.

  “Wait, what’s going on?” Knox asks, a pinch between his brow.

  “Your girlfriend, my now former friend, sent me the link to Jason Orson’s Charity Hustle fundraiser, my assistant accidentally donated to it on my behalf, and according to this email, I won.”

  Emory laughs some more, at least giving me the respect of turning to Knox’s chest so I don’t see the pure joy written all over her face.

  “You mean you won a date with Jason and his sister?”

  “It’s with his sister?” I ask, not realizing that little tidbit of information. “That makes it even worse.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t want to be accused of anything inappropriate, so he signed on a witness. But wait, how on earth did you win? I heard thousands of people entered. He raised over two hundred thousand dollars for his charity.”

  “She donated . . .” Emory’s voice dies off from being pressed against Knox’s chest.

  “She donated how much?” Knox asks.

  “Ten thousand dollars.” His eyes widen and his mouth drops.

  “Damn, girl. Are you crushing on my boy?”

  “What? No,” I say with outrage, even though, yes, there has been crushing in the past. Now it’s more like an appreciation for the male form. For the most gorgeous, muscle-upon-muscle, delectable, drool-worthy male form of Jason Orson to be specific . . .

  No crushing.

  No lusting.

  Did I say lusting? I mean, there has been absolutely no lusting. And before you even ask, NO, I have not looked at the towel pic since that first day, or any picture for that matter. I have better things to be doing with my life.

  Okay . . . maybe the other night, I perused the shirtless pictures again, but just because I couldn’t remember if I saw a birthmark near his armpit or not and it was driving me crazy.

  For the record, no birthmark.

  And no tattoos. I found that out last night when I wanted to clarify that as well.

  And then this morning, when I was wondering if he was really bulging or not in that towel . . . okay, FINE. I’ve looked at pictures of him every day since Lindsay and Emory sent that damn link. Are you happy? Well, you may be happy, but I was more . . . delirious after my battery-driven-while-imagining-licking-Jason-Orson’s-abs orgasm. Or two.

  “I have not been crushing on him. Ten thousand is my normal donation amount. It was a mistake, a miscommunication, and because of it, I’m stuck in the middle of one giant clusterfuck.”

  Emory shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you won. It’s meant to be.”

  “No. Stop that. I’m not going to go on the date.”

  Knox shakes his head. “Man, if you don’t show up, Jason will take it personally.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s a sensitive guy.” Knox sips his beer, acting so casual while an inner war of nerves is in an epic battle in the pit of my stomach. “He prides himself on being honest and true and keeping his word. If he promised someone a date, he’s going to make it happen.”

  And that’s exactly why I can’t get mixed up with this guy. Words like honest and true and sensitive . . . I have a feeling I could easily eat him up and spit him out.

  I’ve been known to do the rare dishonest thing, especially when it comes to work.

  You’re thinking, wow, what an upstanding lady, aren’t you?

  Well, you don’t get to where I am in business without taking advantage of every situation you can. And before you get on your high horse to lecture me about being a good person, I will say this: I never cheat or steal. I just twist the truth at times to get what I want. But what businessman doesn’t?

  Yeah, businessman, because that’s what this world is full of, alpha businessmen with high-rise offices and large desks they fuck their wenches on—well, some are wenches, most are probably really nice ladies. Either way, no one is judging these “ruthless” men and their tactics. Instead, they’re praised. Rewarded. Women are rewarded with the moniker of bitch. Even today. Ridiculous.

  So to wrap up this rant, picture me with a dick.

  Wait, no, don’t picture me with a dick, that’s weird. Just realize, I’ve done what every other guy in my position would have done, but at least I have the common sense to realize even though Jason Orson checks off every box in the looks department—that ass, sigh—I know better than to get anywhere near him.

  “I’ll just send someone else on a date with him.”

  Knox studies me, his eyes peeling off a piece of my shield, making me feel vulnerable. “Do you like him or something?”

  “No,” I say as Emory says, “Yes.”

  “Emory,” I whisper, trying to give her a hint. Girl code. Let’s not talk about this in front of one of Jason’s best friends.

  “What?” She shrugs. “It’s true. In college he was all you ever talked about when we discussed baseball players. Jason this and Jason that.” She turns to Knox and says, “She had the biggest obsession with his ass.”

  “You know”—I tap the kitchen counter—“there’s a special place in hell for people like you, Emory.”

  She laughs out loud and Knox, apparently loving the maniacal sound, presses kisses along her neck. “Is it or is it not true?”

  “You know, I don’t have to take this kind of abuse.” I down a big gulp of beer and set the bottle on the counter. “I hope Kno
x has limp dick for the rest of the night.”

  I start to walk away when Knox calls out, “Hey, what the hell did I do?”

  “You’re attached to her.” I point at Emory. “And you listen up, Knox Gentry, you better not tell Jason about any of this, or else I’ll wish worse things than limp dick on you.”

  “What’s worse than limp dick?”

  “A one-fifty batting average.”

  His brows sharpen, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  “Then keep your lips sealed. Don’t forget, I know people around this city.”

  With that, I begin to leave their apartment when Emory says, “Careful, Jason lives in the same building now, right across the hall actually.”

  I still, my body rigid, my hand about to open the door as I spin around. Swallowing hard, I ask, “Can I use your fire escape?”

  Chapter Four

  JASON

  “Did you hear?” I ask Natalie, who sits at my kitchen bar, setting her purse down on the other seat while I grab her a drink.

  “That you’re in contention for best butt in baseball?”

  I pause, mid-pour of the fresh iced tea I brewed this morning. “Excuse me? What’s this? Best butt in baseball?”

  She laughs, a little too uncontrollably. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were actually going to be really excited about that.” I know that laugh, I’ve heard it almost my whole life. That’s my sister’s laugh that tells me once again, she’s joking around.

  “You know I’m fucking sensitive about my ass, so why would you joke about it?”

  “Because I’m your sister and I have to keep you grounded.”

  I finish filling her cup and hand it to her. “Don’t joke about possibly winning one of the best awards I could possibly think of.”

  She shakes her head. “You have problems.”

  Because I always strive to be a good host, I reach for the food I prepared earlier: a vegetable crudité from the fridge, and homemade pita chips, which I place in the toaster oven to heat up.

  Cut-up veggies, check.

  Pitas, check.