His Banana Page 5

  I lost track of how many glasses I’d had of the wine sometime around the main course, which was lobster in the most simple but incredible butter sauce I’d ever tasted. I was working my way well past tipsy and into drunk territory. It had been my plan, originally, when he forced me out to lunch. I thought maybe if I was an embarrassment he’d stop trying to bully me into being his tag-along.

  I was going to stop and do my best to sit quietly while the alcohol swirled around in my head. Impressing him had started to seem smarter than pissing him off, but I couldn’t just snap my fingers and un-drunk myself.

  The waiter moved to refill my glass, but Bruce put up a hand, stopping him with a subtle gesture. I had been about to stop him myself. Drunken me was offended that Bruce had the nerve to tell me when it was time to stop. Drunken me was also an idiot.

  “Bring it on,” I said, words slurring. I was further gone than I realized. I’d reached the point where the words out of my mouth were as much a surprise to me as to everyone else.

  The waiter looked like he’d rather be anywhere at that moment. Bruce was still trying not to make a scene—trying to preserve his precious order in all things.

  “Come on, big boy,” I said. Somewhere, sober me was curled up in a ball deep inside my brain, cringing, because I knew that particular line wasn’t one that was going to be easy to forget. Drunken me thought it was hilarious.

  “She’s had enough,” he said, forcing the waiter to leave.

  I slumped in my seat, looking defiantly at the couple, who now shifted and tried their hardest to look anywhere but at me. I couldn’t make sense of much anymore. All I really wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep, but then I’d catch a glimpse of Bruce, who didn’t need drunk goggles to look amazing. With the better part of a bottle of wine in me, he looked like some kind of shimmering angel. I felt something stupid and inappropriate boiling up in me and knew I was powerless to stop it.

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause where everyone seemed to be waiting for something. I was too dizzy to even come close to figuring out what it was they expected. Of course, that didn’t stop me from opening my mouth and saying the first thing on my mind.

  “So, Brucie,” I said. “Are you going to be the final course? Because I don’t think I can share you with those two.”

  6

  Bruce

  I apologized for the fifth time as I walked Donna and Gregory out to the valet. Natasha was slumped against my shoulder and I was half-carrying her out of the restaurant.

  “It’s okay, really. We were young once, too,” said Donna.

  Gregory just flashed a tight smile that said Natasha had done significant damage to my reputation with him, and I was going to have to work extra hard to fix it.

  Once they were gone, Natasha straightened a little and fixed me with half-lidded eyes. “Well. That was great. Want me to take you to your place or the office?” Her words were slurred and she couldn’t seem to fix her eyes on one spot for more than a few seconds. She was blasted.

  It was a disaster. I’d foolishly thought I could keep her under control if I kept her by my side. Clearly, I’d underestimated her ability to disrupt my plans.

  I could call someone to pick her up. William would do it, but I couldn’t trust that asshole to keep dumb ideas from his head. He’d never take advantage of her while she was drunk like this, but I wouldn’t put it past him to let her sleep on his couch and then make his move once she sobered up in the morning.

  I’d been denying it, even to myself, but I knew this much. I didn’t just want to keep my brother from Natasha. I wanted to keep everyone else from her. She was my problem. I wasn’t going to call anyone from the office to take her home, because even when she was drunk out of her mind, she was the kind of woman men couldn’t help falling in love with. Most men, at least. I only had to think about Valerie to remember exactly why I wasn’t going anywhere near a relationship, let alone love.

  I pulled her close to my side, leading her into the car when the valet pulled it up in front of the restaurant. I laid her in the back and set my jacket over her legs so she didn’t end up flashing me through the rear-view, and I climbed in the driver seat. I had to call the office to get her address.

  I cringed when I saw where she lived.

  She lived in a mold-clad brick building that looked to be in the permanent shadow of the larger buildings around it. I’d have been shocked if an ounce of sunlight made it into her windows at any point in the day. It was a grim reminder of how far I’d come, and as much as Natasha was a thorn in my fucking side, I didn’t like seeing her live here.

  By the time I found a spot to park, I had to literally carry her two blocks to make it to the apartment. It was a statement on the type of neighborhood she lived in that nobody batted an eyelash to see me carrying her unconscious form with my jacket draped over her legs. She felt so small and fragile in my arms, and I couldn’t help feeling a stab of longing at how good the contact felt. It had been two years since Valerie, but the pain still hung fresh enough to keep me firmly bound to the promise I made myself after it all ended.

  No more relationships. No more commitments. No more trusting anyone I didn’t have to.

  I had to dig through Natasha’s purse awkwardly with one hand while I tried to keep my grip on her with a raised knee and my free arm. I eventually found the keys to the front entrance and then found her apartment number that she had foolishly written on her keys in permanent marker. Didn’t she realize some crazy asshole could find her keys and break into her apartment if she dropped these?

  Of course, she didn't. If Natasha realized something like that, she wouldn't be the walking disaster-reel that she was.

  A woman who couldn’t have been over five foot and definitely wasn’t a day under seventy years old burst out of the door across from Natasha’s before I could go inside.

  “Hmph,” she said, jutting out her jaw and sizing me up. “She’s got money to get drunk, but not to pay rent?”

  “How much does she owe you?” I asked. Best to cut to the chase with people like this. I knew from experience.

  I saw something in the woman’s eyes that told me she smelled money, and she was quickly forming a plan to get as much as she possibly could. “Four months’ rent. That’s, um—” She frowned as she tried to do the mental math.

  “Leave a note under her door within ten minutes that has your information. Make sure I can read it. I’ll get you a check by tomorrow to cover what she owes.”

  The woman looked like she was about to claim Natasha owed even more money, but I let myself into Natasha’s apartment before she had a chance. I’d be ripped off to some degree without a doubt, but it was harmless. One luxury of having excessive amounts of money is being able to value your time over almost any amount of money. If a few thousand dollars got me out of arguing with that woman for even a few minutes, it was a small price to pay.

  It was a one bedroom with a cramped kitchen in the corner, a single window with a beautiful view of the dirty building just outside, and a bathroom that was hardly big enough for the door to swing open. Her bed was a few steps from the door. The place was an absolute mess, and a ridiculously chubby French Bulldog came charging at me as soon as I came inside. From the looks of it, the dog had also taken the liberty of having diarrhea all over. Judging by the smell, it was fresh.

  I carefully set Natasha down on the bed, making sure I didn’t step in any shit while I did. I knelt to let the dog sniff my hand. “I’m a good guy, don’t worry. Your mommy might not agree, but it can be our little secret.”

  The dog cautiously sniffed my hand. After a few seconds, I passed the rigorous canine approval test and was rewarded with a wet lick to the chin.

  “Was this you, or her?” I asked the dog as I surveyed the disgusting poop explosion. “Tell the truth.”

  The dog cowered a little, walking to go sit in the corner.

  “Thought so,” I said.

  I rolled up my sleeves and spent the ne
xt half hour cleaning up shit. Thankfully, Natasha had hardwood floors, so it was nothing a little soap, water, and a hell of a lot of toilet paper couldn’t handle. I tried propping her window open when I was done to let the place air out. It was hot outside this time of year, but a little heat would be better than the smell. I wasn’t surprised to find her window was jammed closed.

  With all the dog crap out of the way, I could see that her apartment was about as messy as I would’ve expected. She had a pile of laundry that wasn’t folded but seemed to be clean sitting by the front door. I guessed it had probably absorbed the smell from her dog’s accident and could use another wash.

  I checked my watch. It was getting late, but I figured I could still hit a few stores before Natasha would wake. I'd grab her some toilet paper to replace the rolls I'd used cleaning up after her jumbo-sized bulldog, tools to fix her window, and I could stop by my place and wash her clothes.

  I pulled off Natasha’s shoes and put her blanket over her. I stopped for a few seconds to marvel at how innocent she looked when she was asleep. It was easy to forget this was the same woman who I didn’t doubt had gotten drunk on purpose to teach me some kind of lesson. Leave it to her to use herself like a battering ram to get at me. She wasn’t the subtle type, and I grudgingly had to admit I admired that about her. Maybe it was because her personality was about as far from Valerie’s as you could get. Maybe it was just because she looked kind of adorable when she was trying her hardest to piss me off and only managing to endear herself to me.

  I had expected something like this when I invited her to dinner, but I hadn’t expected her to actually prove she was useful during the meeting. Someone was going to get their ass chewed out tomorrow for missing the WeConnect issue, but I was surprised Natasha knew the business world well enough to catch the problem. It could’ve been a fluke, but it was one I wasn’t expecting. Even if we would’ve spotted it in a few weeks when we did the final review of the promotional plan, I was impressed.

  I gently rolled her on her side and propped up some of her pillows behind her back and to make sure she wouldn’t roll back over and risk throwing up while sleeping on her back.

  “Keep an eye on her, okay?” I said to the dog. “And get out of the damn corner. You’re not in trouble.”

  The dog happily got up and trotted over to jump on the bed and curl itself into a ball at Natasha’s legs. He grunted at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  He grunted even harder, sitting up now and sticking his ridiculous underbite in my face. I took in the size of him and the folds of extra skin. “She spoils you, doesn’t she. What are you expecting, a treat? Maybe that’s why you have poop troubles, big guy. Tell you what, I’ll get you a carrot from the store.” I leaned down and scratched his blubbery face. “You want a carrot?”

  He wagged his tail in confusion, but licked at my hands. I gave him a pat on the head. “Make sure she doesn't die. She’s technically my employee and I don’t feel like getting blamed for it. I’ll come after you with my best lawyers if something happens to her.”

  7

  Natasha

  I woke up with the kind of headache that makes you regret you ever existed. I didn’t just want to die, I wanted to go back in time and stop my parents from ever making me in the first place.

  My bout of melodrama subsided once I got a cup of coffee in my system and had a couple scrambled eggs. I was standing over the kitchen counter in a kind of mental haze the whole time I was cooking, meanwhile, Charlie wouldn’t stop yapping at my ankles.

  “No playing this morning, baby,” I said to him. “I’m sorry. Mommy is hungover.”

  And then the memories came flooding back, bit by unpleasant bit. Come on, big boy. I had said that, hadn’t I?

  Then I had a near panic attack when I tried to figure out how I had gotten home. I remembered Bruce walking me out of the restaurant and Oh God… I remember the way I was clinging to him like some desperate drunk. I think I even squeezed his ass. My cheeks felt like they were on fire just at the memory.

  I noticed Charlie actually hadn’t pooped anywhere, which was a big relief. I never got a chance to come home and let him out, so I was going to give him a pass if he couldn’t hold his little bladder anymore, and I definitely didn’t walk him when I got home.

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” I said, kneeling to scratch his cheeks. “Let me just put this back and I’ll get you outside. You must be about to burst.” I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and turned to look at his doggy bed, where a full-sized carrot was sitting conspicuously. It looked real, too. Where the hell had he gotten a carrot?

  I took the carton of eggs and opened the fridge. I set the eggs down next to the chicken and vegetables, and then did a double take. Chicken and vegetables?

  I looked in the fridge for the first real time since waking up and saw it was stocked with enough food to last me through the week. The freezer was also full of meat and a few loaves of bread. I just stood there, staring in confusion at what had to be a couple hundred dollar’s worth of groceries.

  Then I noticed how neatly organized everything was, including the spare condiment containers I had probably kept around for several years now, because you never knew when you’d need some buffalo sauce. Every condiment container was organized in a color-coded system and from tallest to smallest. A quick glance around my apartment confirmed someone had gone through my stuff and organized everything. Including the stack of clean clothes I’d had on the floor that were now neatly folded in a pile outside my closet. My underwear was in that neatly folded pile, I noted.

  Bruce.

  It had to have been Bruce. He must have brought me home last night and then the state of my apartment had made some OCD wire in his brain catch on fire. But why had he bought me groceries? And from the amazing smell of the clothes he had folded, he had re-washed them with some kind of fancy detergent.

  I almost got out the phone he had given me as his direct line and called him, but before I could dial his number, I saw what time it was.

  I was already an hour late and I hadn’t even left the house.

  I scooped up Charlie, sprinted down the stairs, set him down and let him do his business on the small patch of grass out front, and then ran him back upstairs like he was a football and I was a star running-back. I was shocked when my landlord didn’t take the opportunity to bust out of her room and harass me about rent, but I wasn’t about to complain.

  I took the world’s fastest shower, threw on clothes and underwear while I tried not to blush at the thought that Bruce now had about a one in ten chance of guessing what color my panties were on any given day. I gave Charlie a quick kiss, and I sprinted outside. Bruce had found a really good parking spot right in front, which was thankful, because I was worried I’d have to hunt around the block for the car.

  I only thought to check the phone Bruce had given me once I was in the car. I had a text from him.

  Bruce: Don’t need picked up today. Meet at the office. Bring the banana.

  Relief and a little bit of confusion ran through me. He had clearly been the one to make sure I got safely back to my bed last night, and he definitely was the one who was such a compulsive organizer that he had hit my apartment like a reverse tornado. I was reluctant to call any of it kindness, because I wasn’t sure Mr. Sex Robot was capable of kindness. He had to have rationalized it in some weird, coldly logical way as a thing he had to do. Maybe he just figured he couldn’t torture his intern if she drunkenly wandered into the street and got hit by a car, or if she died of malnutrition via ramen noodle overdose. The organization had probably been a compulsion and not an attempt at being helpful. He probably organized store shelves when he went shopping, too.

  I opened the door to Bruce’s office just past ten in the morning. It was late, even by my standards. I stuck out the banana I’d picked up on the way like it was a peace offering.

  Bruce stood, grabbed it, and promptly dropped it into the trash without giving it m
ore than a quick skim with his eyes.

  I blew out a breath. It wasn’t exactly a sigh, but it was close. “What was wrong with that one?”

  “It was late.”

  “Then why did you ask me to bring one?”

  “I don’t need a good reason, intern,” He let the word pass those luscious lips of his with a slow, deliberate bite to it.

  “Right.” I tried to keep my face a perfect blank, not wanting him to feel the satisfaction of getting to me. “Remind me, do you want your coffee with or without spit this morning?”

  “Chef’s choice.”

  I made an annoyed noise and stormed out of his office to make his cup of coffee. He had a talent for reminding me to hate him just when I started to get confused. It would serve him right if I really did spit in it, but he seemed to be calling my bluff. There was a level of wrong I wasn’t willing to cross, even to piss him off when he deserved it so badly. I settled for something less disgusting and dumped a packet of sugar in his coffee. I even added a splash of milk, hoping the bastard was lactose intolerant and had to disrupt his perfect schedule with a trip to the bathroom.

  Okay, arguably, it was probably worse than spitting in his coffee. But all I had to do was remember the subtle look of gloating victory in his eyes when he threw away the banana.

  I stepped back in his office, catching him on a phone call. I handed him the coffee and stood just in front of him as he bent his neck to take a sip.

  There was a sound like a pipe springing a leak and I was suddenly bathed in a mist of warm liquid.

  I looked down, not understanding how little dots of brown had suddenly appeared on my blouse and face. Then I saw the look of horror in Bruce’s eyes.

  “Shit,” he said. He grabbed a handful of napkins from a drawer in his desk and started dabbing at my face and then my blouse.