Things Remembered (Accidentally On Purpose Companion Novel #3) (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Excuse me. Pardon me. Watch your toes. Excuse me.”

I awkwardly scooted past the four people occupying the flimsy folding chairs to my own crappy chair. I sat down and handed one of two cups to the man next to me who had most likely reserved my seat with only a discouraging glare from his cold brown eyes.

“You’re late,” he whispered after taking a satisfying sip of the flavored iced tea I handed him.

I scowled. Of course, I was late! My whole grind had been thrown off for the day.

“What did I miss?” I whispered.

“Larry’s knackered, but he claims he’s been sober for thirteen days now.”

“Whatever he’s been for thirteen days, it sure hasn’t been sober.” I shook my head. “Did Judy stand up and insist that her cat has healing powers again?”

He nodded. “Larry wants to test out the kitty-healing theory.”

“Maybe Judy’s pussy will heal Larry and solve both their problems.”

“Then where will we get our entertainment?”

With feigned eagerness, I wagged my brows. “We can always buy drugs and get high. I’ll share my needles with you,” I whisper-sang.

He stared at me coldly as he spoke dryly. “That sounds like a very fine idea. We can slip into violent psychopathic fugues together and attack the people we love.”

“Like rabid Rottweilers,” I whispered gleefully. “Even though you’re an infected penis head, you totally get me.”

“Frenemies forever,” he said, tapping his cup to mine.

From the time I entered into recovery more than eleven years ago, I had attended various meetings and programs for addicts. I hated them. I hated the idea of people standing around sharing that they were a bigger loser than the person who shared before them. Who originally thought it would be a good idea for people to air their personal problems in such a fashion?

My psychiatrist told me that group meetings helped others to know that they weren’t alone. That was a load of malarkey. How did one broken person help another broken person? In my humble opinion, the only satisfaction a person could get out of the meetings was the knowledge that someone else sucked at living worse than they did.

If it were possible to avoid the meetings entirely, I would have, but I couldn’t. When I was a teenager, it was because a court of law told me I had to go. Then the meetings were deemed necessary as part of my compliance to receive my meager inheritance in my early twenties. After a slip up a couple years ago, however, Sterling Corporation also insisted upon it.

No one knew about that slip-up, save for my bosses and one other person, the man that had been sitting beside me every Tuesday night for almost two years.

I had a laundry list of reasons why I hated Kyle Sterling. For starters, he ruined my whole life. Okay, so, maybe not my
whole
life.

After I’d gone into recovery all those years ago, I needed a focus. Somehow, during my foggy drug years, I’d managed to complete several college credits. My therapists, my family, and I had all thought that going back to school would help keep me anchored. So, I fully immersed myself in my studies, and with the use of the CLEPs—in addition to attending a few classes—I’d been able to get a degree in business administration in a little over two years. Wanting to carry myself just a little further, I had begun taking classes to also get a second degree in public relations.

I’d had been very proud of myself. I had accomplished something for the first time in my life that didn’t hurt me or others. My family had been proud of me, too. My cousin Emmy was so proud and so confident in me that she pulled a few strings to get me an interview at Sterling Corporation, where she’d been working since she was a college student. I’d been considered for a couple positions—one of them, in particular, was pretty ambitious for a recent grad, but hey, it was go big or go home. That motto worked when I was doing drugs anyway.

The position required an extremely motivated individual, preferably with a background in real estate and/or acquisitions. A few years of experience was also required, but Emmy had said that there were plenty of people within Sterling Corp that got positions they didn’t necessarily deserve, including the man who would be my boss.

“Kyle got his position because he was born a Sterling, not because of his qualifications,” Emmy had said. “But he happens to be very good at his job. You can be very good at yours, too.”

I didn’t have the qualifications, nor did I have the Sterling name behind me, but I
did
have the Grayne name. Emmy wasn’t the child of a chief officer of the company, but she
had
been a star in her own right, an administrative beast, and an exemplary employee. With nepotism at its best and my excellent gift for bullshittery, the hiring manager had ended up offering me the position.

Unfortunately, I’d never received the chance to excel or fail. Keith, the hiring manager, had called me just as I had walked into the building for my first day of work and asked me to meet him in his office. When I’d arrived, Kyle Sterling was already there, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth set in an ugly scowl.

“Mayson, have a seat,” Keith had said. He’d tried to smile, but with so much tension around his mouth, it didn’t look like a smile at all. His fingers had nervously adjusted and readjusted items on his desk.

I hadn’t wanted to sit down, but I’d done so without remark. Keith had cleared his throat and glanced at Kyle. I’d glanced at Kyle, too, but not with anxiety like the middle-aged man behind the desk. I’d looked at him with curiosity. He’d clearly been one of those men that contorted his very fine-looking face into one that would make most fear him, but I’d had no fear. I’d seen and dealt with worse guys than some stuffy suit with a pretty face.

“Mayson, I have some bad news and I have some good news,” Keith had stated, trying again to smile. “Unfortunately, we have to rescind our last offer of employment. However,” he’d added quickly when I frowned, “I can offer you a position in our human resource department. The pay is…well, significantly lower, but there are many benefits and room for advancement.”

I wouldn’t have minded if I had never been given the job to begin with. It had truly been a long shot, but I
had
been given the job. I was disappointed, but not angry or hurt; however, I’d wanted to know
why
they had taken it away. I would have understood if the position was going to someone more qualified, but I’d wanted to hear Keith say that since he’d given me the job to begin with.

“Why, may I ask, have you made this decision?” I’d asked politely, as I folded my hands tightly in my lap.

Keith had opened his mouth to respond, but Kyle Sterling answered before he could, and with much less grace.

“You are not only inexperienced, but you are also incompetent,” he’d said sharply from the sidelines.

I had taken a quick breath before turning my head to look at him.

“Inexperienced, yes, most definitely,” I’d said with an edge in my voice. “However, there is no way for you to measure my competency as you have yet to see my performance in any capacity.”

“Your employment history is sketchy at best.” He’d picked up a file off Keith’s desk, opened it, and then proceeded to read to me my life’s history. “Mayson Mariah Grayne. Your first arrest was at the age of fourteen for drug possession and trespassing. You were arrested seven more times over a five-year period for drug possession, theft, lewd conduct, public drunkenness, assault on a police officer, driving under the influence, and assault and battery.” The file had been dropped back onto the desk as he’d stared at me. “Your rap sheet is so long that I don’t have enough time in my day to read it all. Do you dispute any of it?”

I’d glared at him. Keith had had every right to that report since my employment status with the company had been his decision, but I’d known for a fact that the information Kyle had read was never meant for his eyes.

I’d wanted to punch the smug, nasty look off his face, but since I’d still had an opportunity for employment on the table, I reluctantly kept my hands to myself.

“Do you dispute it?” Kyle had asked again.

I’d ignored him and turned to Keith.

“You were aware of my background when you presented me with the job offer, were you not?”

Of course, he had been privy to such information. We’d spoken about it during my first interview.

I hadn’t seen any reason to tear Keith’s face off, though; it had been obvious that Kyle was the one kicking me out of the position.

Anxiously, he had leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk, pushing the glasses up on his face.

“Certainly. Yes, Miss Grayne. Erm, that is, even though we are usually more…well…uh…selective with our employees, Miss Esmeralda Grayne has given you very high accolades. Also, your…” He’d cleared his throat and dared a glance at Kyle, but I kept my eyes on him. “Your therapist and parole officer also spoke very highly of you. We here at Sterling believe in giving everyone the chance to—”

He’d been cut off once again by Crabby Kyle.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he’d said in a quiet tone that some may call dangerous, but I just thought he sounded like Batman.

I’d given him a one-shoulder shrug. “I can neither dispute nor lay claim to most of it, as I do not recall most of those incidences.”

His eyes had narrowed more. “So you say.”

Irritated, I’d said, “Yes, so I say. Drugs have a way of addling the brain.”

“So, you admit that you are a drug addict.” A look of self-satisfaction for surmising such a very obvious thing had crossed his face. He was more than Captain Obvious; he’d earned a promotion to Admiral Obvious.

“I am a
recovering
drug addict, but”—I’d smiled sweetly at him—“you already know about that, don’t you, Mr. Sterling?”

There were many, many faces I had forgotten over the years, but his was not one of them. I’d seen his face at a dreaded meeting before, just as I had known he’d probably seen mine, too.

The frigidity of his stare could have turned just about anyone else into a shaking and terrified mess, but it had only convinced me that my words had hit home.

“Do you have anything else to add to your list of reasons as to why you believe I am incompetent?” I’d asked as I inspected my nails.

He hadn’t hesitated to answer. “You have only just recently graduated from a generic college with an unimpressive transcript and a degree that has nothing to do with the position you were heedlessly hired for. With your offending, derelict background, ineptitude and ignorance, you hardly qualify to even work in our mailroom. Unfortunately, I only have the power to keep you out of my own department, not out of the company as a whole.”

Even though it would’ve been wise to just take his verbal beating, smile, and prattle my way through it until he went on his way, that was a lesson I had yet to learn. I had yet to utilize the filter that connected my brain to my mouth—even after all these years, it takes a considerable effort for me not to say exactly what I think.

“You can stand there with your ivy-league education—that your daddy probably bought for you—in your two-thousand dollar Canali suit and say what you will about my arrest record and my history with drugs. You can talk all day about how unqualified and incompetent I am for the position, but if you ever again try to tarnish the one gold star I’ve earned in my life, I will knee you in the balls so hard that you’ll be spitting them out of your mouth. Then I’ll shake some pepper on them, find a pair of tweezers to lift the wee things with, and eat them for lunch.”

I had suddenly remembered that the man that hired me sat only a few feet away. I’d looked over at Keith and cringed inwardly, so sure that I’d lost any employment opportunities by threatening to eat Kyle Sterling’s balls. I was shocked, however, when the man’s eyes had flicked to me, and one corner of his mouth had—very briefly—pulled up into what could only have been a smile, or some kind of palsy.

I’d glanced back up at Kyle, whose face hadn’t changed. He didn’t smile, nor did he seem surprised or angry. He hadn’t even placed a protective hand over his balls. He’d just continued to wear what I later dubbed his “Bitch Face,” which, for the most part, was his normal expression.