Make Me Bad (Page 6)
I finish my last rep and sit up, pointing out the obvious. “We’re in the middle of working out.”
He throws my towel at me. I drag it down my face then hang it around the back of my neck.
“Yeah, about that—why did I let you talk me into this? My whole shtick is that I’m kind of chubby but charming nonetheless. Women love it—well, the women who don’t want you love it.”
I shake my head, careful to ignore him. On a good day, Andy is unbearable. Most days, he’s fucking ridiculous. He’s the brother I never had, and we’ve been friends since kindergarten. We went to the same law school then followed through with our plan to move back to Clifton Cove after graduation and start our own firm. I could have easily taken a position with my father, going for the easy hours and raking in the cash, but Andy and I had our own ideas. Besides, it’s better this way. I don’t like answering to anyone, not even Andy, which is why I own 51% of the firm and he owns 49%.
I glance over to the mirror to see him checking out one of the women across the gym. Arianna—he’s been in love with her for as long as I can remember. She waves before I motion to him to come spot me again.
“When do you start?” he asks as I lie back and grab the bar.
“Friday, after work.”
He looks crestfallen. “We’re supposed to get drinks after work on Friday.”
“Rain check.”
He drops the bar and walks away.
“Andy!”
He ignores me. No doubt he’s going over to talk to Arianna.
Out of the two of us, he’s more easily distracted by the opposite sex. I’m pretty sure he loves women more than life itself, and it shows. On paper, Andy is more of a ladies’ man. He dates. He Tinders. He swipes on every available app and prowls the gym every time we’re here on the off chance his soul mate is within reach. Tonight, he’s in luck. She’s actually here.
As for me, I’m not really interested in dating at the moment. For the last few years, women have served a singular purpose in my life. I’ve been happy with nights spent with tourists I’ll never see again. It’s easier than the alternative: sleeping around with women in Clifton Cove. We all grew up together, and I’ve watched them become the debutantes their parents always wanted them to be. There’s a mold they all adhere to, and while it’s not a bad mold, it is a boring one. Even though I know it would make my dad happy to see me settle down, I can’t seem to want a single one of them.
Just because I don’t want to marry them doesn’t mean I couldn’t give in to temptation and accept the offers a few of them have made crystal clear since I returned from law school. That said, I adhere to the old adage Don’t shit where you eat. Clifton Cove is small, and word travels fast.
I tell myself I’m not interested in dating and relationships because I have a lot on my plate with work. I enjoy burning the midnight oil, tearing through files and emails and prepping for meetings until my vision blurs from reading and my fingers ache from typing. I’m hungry for success even though it’s all but destined for me, so love and women have naturally taken the back seat.
The truth is more complicated than that. After my mom entered a permanent facility, after we were sure her dementia would worsen, after she forgot my name, who I was, what I meant to her—something inside me split in two.
A more romantic person would say it was my heart, but I think it was my optimism, my hope for an easy, happy life. Watching a person suffer like that, enduring that suffering myself…I’m not sure I’m willing to take the risk again.
Then, for some insane reason, I think of Madison Hart.
Just thinking her name makes me frown, confused—no, baffled. She’s impossible to forget, and believe me, I’ve tried. During the day, I can mostly put her out of my mind. Work and my social life keep me busy enough. Besides, we only had one brief, albeit crazy, encounter. The chances of our paths crossing again are slim to none. We don’t run in the same circles. Her family despises me. And yet…at night, she keeps finding her way into my dreams.
The same few moments play out again and again. She’s kneeling down on the sidewalk, underneath the streetlamp, just like that night. She’s looking up at me and her eyes are so big and green, a swirling mess of a color that digs at something deep inside me. The green is so vibrant, the color of grass just after it rains, the color of life.
Sometimes I work up the courage to step closer and touch her. I cradle her cheek in my hand and she accepts the comfort so willingly. Other times, I jerk awake before I get the chance.
Either way, I’m frustrated in the morning.
It’s been a few weeks since my arrest. My lip and eye have healed up, and other than a small scar beside my eyebrow, I’m good as new. Life has carried on as normal except for the misdemeanor charge hanging over my head. Much to the chagrin of my father and Judge Mathers, I stuck with my guilty plea and accepted my sentence: 100 hours of community service. After I’m done, I’ll have the misdemeanor expunged from my record. It’s silly that I’m going through with all this—I didn’t assault Mac and his friends. We were all in there, throwing punches, taking our anger out on each other. Andy even had a few bruises to show for it, and he wore them proudly around the office before they faded. I swear he was a little sad to see them go.
I don’t have to do the community service. Mac isn’t going to know whether or not I weaseled out of my punishment. Hell, he probably assumes I did, but I’ll know, and I guess, for some stupid reason, that matters.
Normally in situations like this, the courts would demand that the offender volunteer or pay restitution to the organization directly impacted by the crime itself. Since mine was a misdemeanor involving a simple assault, and since Judge Mather’s heart wasn’t really in it for the sentencing, he tossed a list of organizations at me and told me to pick one. I skipped over the soup kitchen, hospital, and retirement home. The last option on the list was the local library, a place I haven’t set foot in since I was a kid.
I chose it on a whim and now here I am, ready to report for my first day. It’s 5:00 PM on Friday and I’ve had a long week at the firm. Andy and I currently have more clients than we can handle. We’ve brought in four junior associates in the last two years, but somehow, the workload just keeps piling up. I could use a break, a night of just kicking back and shooting the shit with my friends, a real weekend where I’m not holed up at the office.
In truth, the last thing I need is another commitment on my plate, so now, more than ever, I’m kicking myself for getting into this mess. Was it really worth it to land that solid punch across Mac’s face?
Yes. Yes, it was.
I park in the visitor’s lot and hop out, glad I changed clothes before I left work. I’m not about to show up to volunteer in a suit.
It really has been a while since I’ve been here. Like I said, the firm has been keeping me busy, but I also avoid this place because it carries a lot of memories I’d rather not dwell on, like Saturdays with my mom, especially. I walk up the imposing staircase, past the statue of my great-great-great-grandfather cast in bronze, and then pull open the heavy door. Inside, there’s a security guard perched at an ancient oak desk. When I ask him about a volunteer station, he looks at me like I’m from a different planet. Right. I’ll find it myself.
Like most buildings around Clifton Cove, the library is ridiculously over the top for the function it serves. This isn’t your standard one-story brick building with mismatched furniture and stained carpet from the 80s. The floors are marble. The walls are paneled and finished with crown molding. The ceilings stretch to heights usually reserved for churches, and the artwork hanging on the walls is no doubt on loan from various museums around the country.
The bronze guy outside—the original Mr. Rosenberg—endowed the city with the funds and oversaw the design and build of the library. Of all the buildings in the city that carry my last name, this one is my favorite.
I walk past the quiet study rooms, past two symmetrical staircases with wrought iron rails, past the magazines and periodicals. I’m looking around for some kind of help desk when a short guy wearing khaki pants and a blue gingham button-down walks right up to me like he’s on a mission. Based on the fact that he’s approaching me at all, I assume he’s an employee who’s seen me ambling around, obviously looking lost.
“Could you point me in the direction of—”
“Oh my god. Are you here for Madison?”
“What?”
He straightens his shoulders and shakes his head, affecting a gentler tone when he continues, “I just mean…after what happened…” His brows furrow in confusion behind his thick black-framed glasses. “Never mind, forget I said anything.” His hand shoots out. “I’m Eli.”
I accept his handshake. “Ben—”
“Rosenberg. Yes, I know.” He drops my hand and steps back, frowning. “Are you here to check out library books? Because I looked and you don’t even have a library card.”
“Uhh…”
I look around, hoping to find some clues as to who this person is and why he seems to know so much about me. Also, why did he bring up Madison?