Asking for Trouble (11 page)

Three weeks later, on her way home from her second “first
week” that month, she thought back on how she’d behaved that night and cringed yet
again. Why did she always have to see Joe at her least competent, most
vulnerable times? At her parents’ house at Christmas, while she was moving, the
first day of a new job? Those were nobody’s shining moments, were they? Why
couldn’t she see him when she was getting some professional award or something?
Closing some deal? Not that she ever
had
got
a professional award or closed a big deal, but she’d had a lot better moments
than the ones she’d shared with him recently, that was for sure.

The next time she saw him, she resolved, she’d be all calm
and self-assured, and she’d have good news to report. Because he’d been right,
that had been a low point, and things had got a lot better.

She’d soaked up everything she could from Suzanne during the
one week she’d had with her, had put all her efforts during her in-between week
into learning the fundraising software and familiarizing herself with Second
Chance’s past campaigns, all the major donors and their backgrounds.

All that effort looked like it was going to pay off, because
this was the end of her first week with Helene, the new Director of
Development, and her new boss had invited her to lunch today, had listened to
her ideas and even complimented her on them.

“I have a feeling we’ll make a good team,” Helene had said.
“I realize you don’t have any development experience, but as long as you’re
here to learn and here to work, I’ll be happy. Two heads are better than one,
right? So if you have any bright ideas, please, go ahead and share. We need to
shake this place up. There’s so much untapped potential here.”

“That’s exactly how I feel,” Alyssa said eagerly.
“Especially in tech. We have hardly any tech companies contributing. Here they
all are, getting more and more prominent, in the City and in Silicon Valley,
too. They’re the only ones with money to burn, and they
want
to be good community citizens. And here we are, offering such
a media-friendly opportunity. Individual children, right here in the United
States. What could be more appealing than that? And yet we aren’t reaching
them. I was thinking,” she said, taking a breath, because this was her chance,
“maybe a campaign aimed specifically at them. Something that would grab them.”

“Great idea,” Helene said. “Too bad you’re not related to Alec
Kincaid. That would really be perfect. You’re not, are you? Not a cousin, or
anything?”

Her blue eyes held Alyssa’s, and Alyssa willed herself not
to blush. “No, alas.” She laughed. She hated to lie, but she wanted to do this
on her own. She’d come to think that Suzanne’s departure might have been a
blessing in disguise after all. Now nobody knew who she was. She was free to
make her own mark.

“No,” Helene said with a laugh of her own, “I guess that
would be too good to be true. But when you get that killer idea worked out, who
knows, your name might just get us a little further.”

Us.
Alyssa hugged
the word to her. “I wanted to tell you, too,” she said, “I have a couple of
meetings lined up with smaller potential donors. Suzanne told me that the
Assistant Director handled those calls in the past,” she added hastily as the
other woman’s gaze sharpened, and tried to project confidence.

“Really.” Helene raised a sculpted eyebrow. She was one of
the best-groomed women Alyssa had ever met. “Well, then, if you’ve got meetings
set up, you’d better go ahead and handle them, don’t you think?” She smiled at
Alyssa. “I’ll come along too, if you don’t mind. It’ll give me my own chance to
get my feet wet.”

“I don’t mind,” Alyssa said, though she’d been looking
forward to the opportunity to go out on her own. She’d sat in on several calls
with Suzanne, and she
did
know how to
present, and to sell. But what else could she say? “Of course not.”

“Wonderful,” Helene said. “I have a feeling we’re going to
get along just fine.”

Alyssa hoped so, too. She’d been right, this was a job that
mattered, and she thought it was a job she could do. It was a job where she
could make a difference. It was what she’d wanted.

Everything was looking up, she thought, jumping off the
N-Judah streetcar at her stop, And tonight, she even had a date.

“Doing the check-in,” she said a good five hours later,
leaning against the wall next to the hand dryer in the ladies’ room of 111
Minna, the heavy thump of the bass through the thin walls rocking her body like
a beating pulse.

“How’s it going?” Sherry asked at the other end of the phone.
Her roommate had taken Alyssa to the party last week where she’d met Greg,
who’d turned out to be a friend of Sherry’s cousin.

Alyssa shrugged as if her roommate could see her. “All
right. About to leave, though, so wanted to let you know. Home in a half hour
or so.” Dating Safety 101.

“Sparks?” Sherry asked. “Should I go to bed, give you some
space?”

“Not enough to light a teeny little campfire,” Alyssa
admitted. And she wanted to burn down the house. She couldn’t help it. She
wanted
it, and nothing less was going to
do. “I know he’s a friend of yours, but . . .”

“Nah, I don’t know him that well. What?”

“Well, you know those first-date conversations? The job
interview kind?”

“Oh, yeah. One of those, huh?”

“And I flunked. Not a Worthy Girlfriend, not now that I’m,
you know, poor.”

“You are not poor. You’re normal.”

“He spent half of dinner telling me how materialistic most
women are, how they see him as a meal ticket because he’s got money. Practically
had the message blinking in bright red letters across his forehead. And the
other half talking about all the stuff he has.”

“Ooh. Fail.”

“Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you ditch him?”

“Well, you know. Dancing.” Alyssa laughed. “I figured, after
putting up with that, I deserved some dancing time. And he deserved to have to
pay for it.”

She heard Sherry’s answering laugh. “Serves him right.
Sounds like Greg isn’t getting lucky.”

“Greg isn’t even getting mildly fortunate. Greg is getting a
hearty handshake and a cordial thank-you. Oh, well. Another one bites the dust.
Where are the great guys? I know they must be out there somewhere. My dad’s a
great guy. My brothers are great guys.”

“Mmm,” Sherry said. “I’ve only met one in person, but you’re
right, Alec is a great guy and then some. And Gabe . . .” The gusty sigh came
right through the line. “Haven’t seen him, but on TV, yeah, he’s a winner too. No
fair that I meet you when they’re both married. But they can’t be the only
ones. Why can’t we meet nice guys?”

“Well,” Alyssa had to admit, “that wouldn’t help me, because
I don’t like nice guys. They’re always boring, or I can push them around too
much.”

“Mmm,” Sherry said again. “Bad boys.”

“Yeah. I want a bad boy who’s a good man. Is that so much to
ask?”

“Probably. I’m still surprised you never hit it with Joe. I
mean, come on. Helped you move, took you car shopping . . . And I know he’s one
of those old-friend types, so maybe you don’t see it, but he’s
hot.
So big and tough, and that quiet deal
he does, how you can’t tell what’s going on underneath. Love that. Did you ever
give him my number? I know that was awkward, that one time, but hey, we can’t
just sit around and pine away for Prince Charming, can we? But it probably put
him off. Maybe if he got a little nudge from my loving roommate, he’d get the
hint.”

“I didn’t have a chance yet.” Alyssa pushed herself away
from the wall. “I’d better go. Greg’s probably thinking I’m snorting coke in
here.”

“OK. See you soon.”

 
It was a long,
cold hike from the club to the car, which Greg had parked after much circling
of blocks a good way north of Market, but they made it at last. It sure would
have been nice if Greg had suggested that he get the car by himself and come
back to the club for her. But, she had to concede, that would probably have
been too thoughtful to expect of your average thirty-something guy. At least he
opened the car door for her, preserving his good-bye handshake, if nothing
else.

He started the engine, punched her address into the GPS
unit, pulled out of his spot and made an illegal U-turn. That didn’t bother her
much—she wasn’t all that crazy about perfect behavior anyway—but it
was
cold.

“Would you mind turning on the heat?” she asked, trying to
keep her teeth from chattering. She still wasn’t used to Northern California
temperatures.

He looked at her in surprise. “You cold? You should have
worn a warmer coat.”

I didn’t realize I’d
be walking to the Arctic Circle.
She decided her best bet was not to answer.
He turned up the fan and dialed the temperature up, to her relief, though she
shivered away for a few blocks until it kicked in.

“Better?” he asked, and she forgave him a little.

“Yes, thanks.”

“I’m glad you wanted to go dancing,” he said, shooting a
smile across at her that told her he was looking for more than a handshake
tonight. “You’re a great dancer.”

“Thanks for taking me,” she said, because she was her
parents’ daughter, after all. “I enjoyed it.”

“You look pretty good doing it, too,” he said. “I almost
didn’t go to that party last week. What I would’ve missed, huh?”

She didn’t answer that one. What did you say? “Thank you?”
“Dream on?”

He headed east and south, taking the side streets, avoiding
the bus and pedestrian traffic of Market, hung a left and laid on the horn at a
pedestrian crossing in mid-block, his dark clothing making him barely visible,
the shamble to his walk proclaiming him as one of the perennial down-and-out.

“You’d think the city could get a clue and clean the bums
out of here.” Greg stepped on the gas again as the man staggered out of the way.
“It’s like human litter, you know?”

And just like that, she was hating him again. “Litter?
Really? Aren’t they people?”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Even if you want to talk about
compassion . . . you can put a dog out of his misery, but a wino who’s probably
going to die of cirrhosis in a few months anyway, in and out of the emergency
room over and over, right back on the streets again the next day with his
Thunderbird?
 
And we’re pumping our
tax dollars into keeping him alive? For what? Who benefits? Not him. His life’s
got to be miserable.”

“And yet he’s choosing to live,” she said. “Even so.”

“And meanwhile,” he went on, ignoring her, caught up now, “you
see the same guys on the same street corners every single day. I’d tell them to
get a job, but they’ve got one. Begging. And the same suckers putting coins in
their cups, too. Financing that next pack of cigarettes. Nice work if you can
get it.”

“Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said. “It
couldn’t be that, say, they’ve got substance abuse problems. Mental illness. It
couldn’t be that they
can’t
get out.
You think they choose this?”

“Sure they do. Everybody makes choices. You make the wrong
choices, fall down the ladder, why should I support you? Why should I support
your habit?”

“Nice to be you,” she managed to say. “Nice to be so strong
and lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he said, and he was angry
now too, it was clear. So much for how good she’d looked dancing. Not that
good, apparently, because he was burning his bridges
down.
“Nobody’s ever given me a thing. I’ve earned every penny I’ve
got, and I don’t see why I should feel sorry for people who refuse to do the
same.”

Her temper had kicked in for real, and she needed to be out
of this car, or bad things were going to happen. Greg braked to a sharp stop at
yet another light, and she checked that her little purse was still slung low
across her chest, then yanked at the door handle. Locked. She fumbled for the
switch, found it, unfastened her seatbelt and had the door open.

“I’m out of here,” she told him, sliding out just as the
light turned green.

“What the hell?” he spluttered, but she wasn’t listening.
She didn’t bother to close the car door behind her, deciding to let him deal
with the honking she could hear starting up behind her as she made it to the
sidewalk. She turned and saw him leaning over as far as he could, fruitlessly
reaching, until he gave it up and jumped out of the car, ran around it to shut
the door, while the driver of the car behind him laid on the horn, and laughed.
Served him right.

“Are you crazy?” Greg shouted across at her.

“No. I’m a woman with standards,” she yelled back. She could
see him mouthing something, probably “crazy bitch,” and then he’d run back
around the car. And been promptly stopped by the light turning red once more,
which made her laugh again. Sherry’s cousin might not invite her to any more
parties, but it had been worth it.

She decided to walk in the opposite direction, away from
him. Probably best. Where was she, anyway? Someplace in the Tenderloin, which
meant that there weren’t going to be cabs, not until she got to a BART station.
If she kept walking, she’d hit Market and the Powell Street station eventually.
It couldn’t be more than six or seven blocks. She considered getting her phone
out and checking, abandoned that idea fast as she looked around her at the knot
of loiterers in front of the shadowy expanse of an auto body shop, a closed
Chinese restaurant with the metal grilles pulled over the windows, the
not-much-more-reassuring entrance of a low-rent residential hotel, and felt the
first shiver of unease.

And not the first shiver of cold. As she’d already figured
out, the right clothes for dancing in a club weren’t the right ones for walking
in San Francisco on a January midnight. Her little coat, her skimpy sweater and
short skirt weren’t keeping her warm, and they were definitely attracting the
wrong kind of attention.