Читать книгу The Nemesis Affair - Erin McCarthy - Страница 6

Chapter One

“I’m a cliché.”

Samantha Hess flung herself down on her friend Katrina’s couch in overly dramatic frustration and pushed her glasses up her nose. “An overeducated twenty-four-year-old unemployed woman, single and living in Brooklyn in an apartment with no windows. Total cliché. It’s ludicrous.”

“The only thing that would be even more ironic would be if you were Jewish,” Katrina said, cramming a piece of bruschetta into her mouth. “Then you’d basically be a cable TV sitcom.”

“I am Jewish!” Samantha protested. Though she hadn’t set foot in a synagogue since she’d made her bat mitzvah, it still counted. She reached for her own piece of cheese-smothered bread. She needed carbs, stat.

Katrina gave her an amused look. “I know you are. I was being facetious.”

“Well, don’t. Your clever wit isn’t going to pay my rent.” Sam pulled her phone out from under her butt cheek where she’d sat on it and started what had become a three-hundred-times-a-day ritual of searching for any open job positions on all the known employment posting sites. It was hopeless. She knew it was hopeless. Marketing jobs for entry-level employees were as scarce as square footage in New York. “There are no jobs. At. All. I’m going to be forced to move home to Boston and listen to my mother tell me how she was right and I should have become a nurse.”

“Oh God, a nurse?” Katrina made a face. “You’d have a terrible bedside manner.”

“I know, right?” She clicked and scrolled, before thinking about what her friend had said. “Wait, did you just insult me?”

“Is assuming you wouldn’t be interested in wiping someone’s ass an insult, or just proving how well I know you?”

Uh, no. No ass wiping. She could own it. “Yeah, you totally nailed it. I would rather prostitute myself than change diapers, either adult or baby.” Slight exaggeration, but just slight. She had a very sensitive gag reflex. Which, then again, might make prostitution a poor career choice, as well.

Fabulous. She was going to starve to death, end of story. “Why can’t there be jobs for brutally honest people? I’d be good at that. Or jobs for people who can wrap presents thoughtfully with great color schemes. Or people who are really, really good at catching a cab when it’s raining?”

Those were no small achievements.

“I don’t know about the first one, but the latter two sound like being a personal assistant. I don’t think you’d be so crazy about that either.”

Hmm. Good point. “Probably not. I was good at my job, you know. It’s just this damn economy.” And now she sounded like those two old guys in the theater box on the Muppets. Damn economy. Grumble, grumble. “Being downsized is like the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech when you’re dumped by a guy.”

Samantha reached for another piece of bruschetta. Two months. She’d been out of work for two months and unemployment only went so far.

“I’m sorry. Have you tried more nontraditional sites for jobs? I know people have actually found positions on social media.”

“I can find a job on Twitter?” For what, she couldn’t imagine. “Color me skeptical.”

Katrina folded her legs underneath her, chocolate-brown cable-knit tights pulling taut. “You can find anything online. Literally anything. Like I bet you could use Google to search professional ass-kicker and find a job posting.”

That made her laugh. “No way.”

“Sam.” Trina gave her a long look. “I found an eBay listing for gently used condoms. And another for a woman’s placenta, at the bargain price of two hundred bucks.”

Oh dear God. She made a face. “Ew. Double ew.”

“I’m telling you. You can find anything online.”

Katrina was right. She knew she was. “I’m Googling professional ass-kicker right now. It’s probably going to take me straight to some site where people are looking for BDSM partners.” And while that might be fun, it wasn’t going to solve her immediate lack of cash flow.

“Then don’t use ass-kicker. Use a different word. Like enemy. Or bully.”

Samantha was typing rapidly, seeing what would pop up in her search bar. “Oh my God, Professional Nemesis Wanted. Right here! That can’t be real.”

“Told ya.” Katrina looked smug.

As well she should be since she had a job, a hot boyfriend and a cute apartment.

Not that Samantha was bitter or anything. Much.

“Wanted: Nemesis to help former rugby player work out his aggression in a healthy manner outside the workplace,” she read.

“What? What does that even mean?” Katrina asked. “He wants a workout partner or something?”

“I have no idea. Wait, there’s more. ‘Looking for someone to challenge, goad and push me via texts and email so I get both a full physical workout and learn to focus my energy in a positive way.’”

“He sounds like a hipster. How much is he paying? You can goad, can’t you?”

Goading was something she wasn’t all that familiar with and frankly, sounded awkward as hell. “I’m not sure I can, actually. You know I’m really terrible at telling men what to do.” It was why she was currently single. She had a very bad habit of choosing strong men with even stronger attitudes and losing herself in the relationship. After a particularly bad breakup she had decided she needed to learn to stand up for herself just a wee bit better before hitting the scene again.

“That is true. But think of this as the opportunity to push yourself. How brutal can you be? I say apply for the job. At the very least it will be entertaining. ‘Drop and give me twenty, loser.’ Like how fun would that be?”

Sam rolled over on the couch and reached for the wine bottle. Her glass was mysteriously empty. Pouring, she rolled her eyes at her friend. “You are so full of shit. You wouldn’t be able to do that any more than I am capable of it. Let’s face it—we can tell off a cab driver, scream at the bicycle messenger who runs into us and shoot daggers at the bartender who stiffs us on vodka, but when it comes to men, we want to be enlightened and beyond the shrew, so to speak. In the end, I just have every ill-mannered, flannel-shirt-wearing douche bag Brooklynite running roughshod over me.”

“Which is why you should be a nemesis. You can’t get any more Brooklyn than that. I love it. It’s genius.”

It was kind of genius. And Sam was a little intrigued. Maybe part of the reason she couldn’t find a job was because she was passive. She sat nicely in interviews and waited for them to ask questions, which she then politely answered, and afterward nobody ever called her back. It was a bizarre reality that she had no problem being entitled when it came to vying for a subway seat, but with men and the job market she had zero chutzpah.

“I might as well message him for more information. Maybe he wants to pay in vegetables or something completely bizarre.” Nothing would surprise her at this point. “Emailing now.”

She typed quickly. Can you please provide more details on the nemesis position? Such as pay and tasks required?

But when she read it out loud to Katrina she realized it was all wrong. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she deleted. “I need to be more aggressive, don’t I? I mean, it’s an ad for someone to boss him around. I need to channel an attitude.”

“You totally do.”

Having never played sports or done anything competitive at all, aside from beer pong as an undergrad at NYU, it wasn’t exactly something that came naturally. But that was the point. “Okay, so how about... I’m available to start immediately. I’ll need your current workout regime and your goals. Until then, remember that if you’re not first, you’re last.”

Katrina started laughing. Samantha felt a little smug as she hit Send. “That feels kind of good, you know that?”

“I wonder if he’s hot? I mean, rubgy player sounds hot.” Katrina took a sip of her wine and raised her eyebrows up and down suggestively.

“The odds of that are about as small as my bank account.” She held up her fingers a hair apart. “Teeny-weeny. Dis big.”

“You never know.”

“What I do know is that Rugby Boy is desperate to have his ass kicked because hello, he already responded.” She turned her phone for Katrina to see. But then didn’t give her friend time to look because she was curious what he’d said.

“It’s like a whole list of what he does to work out in a day and it’s completely ridiculous. Who does two hundred squats in one day? Plus he says he wants to push himself to run up to five miles because running is his weak spot.”

Then she saw the disclaimer. Only interested in working with a guy.

Pfft. What did a guy have that she didn’t?

Besides a penis. How would he ever know? The ad said emails and text messages. “I’m totally doing this,” she told Katrina. “I don’t even care how much it pays. This is going to be an interesting exercise for me. It’s like therapy to learn how to be assertive. He wants a guy, but whatever. I’ll just imply I’m male.”

“As long as he doesn’t expect you to ever meet him in person. Because if he does, I’m pretty sure he’ll figure it out.”

“I’m not going to meet him. He could be a complete creep.” She watched crime TV. There was no way she was going to meet a guy who was nuts enough to want to hire a nemesis. Hell no.

“My name is Sam,” she typed back in response, speaking her words out loud for Katrina’s benefit. “And unless you’re eighty, you can do five miles. If you are eighty, I still expect three.”

“Ha-ha, he answered immediately.” Entertained, Samantha grinned. “‘I like your style,’ he says. ‘Let’s give this a trial run. One week? Five emails a day. Show me what you got. I’m Liam.’”

“It’s a deal, Liam.”

For the first time in weeks, Samantha wasn’t wallowing in self-pity. Being an asshole was invigorating.

* * *

Liam Kelly sat at his desk in his cubicle and tried to keep his expression neutral as his boss spoke. His complete bugger of a passive-aggressive boss, who had absolutely no reason to behave the way he did, other than that he clearly enjoyed it.

“So let’s not have that happen again, all right?” Greg clapped him on the shoulder as if they were buddies. But it was a con. A sham. He was enjoying giving Liam a dressing down. It was his way of feeling powerful or some such shit.

All Liam knew was that he left the bank every day wanting to punch a brick wall repeatedly. Or punch Greg in the face while emphatically stating with total satisfaction, “I quit.”

But he couldn’t quit. The only way he was allowed to stay in the US was if he kept his job and therefore his work visa. So there would be no punching in the face no matter how often Greg made him want to, and there would be no tearing apart his cubicle walls in total defiance, or ripping his tie off and rappelling with it down the side of the building to the street for an escape. All of which he had considered at one point or another.

He’d never been meant to work in an office. It wasn’t in his genetic makeup. But after retiring from rugby, he’d found himself needing a job in finance per his university degree or risk being sent on a plane back to Ireland. And while he loved the country he’d been born and raised in, he equated going back with failure. He’d have to stand in front of his father in Kinsale and tell him that the sacrifices he’d made for his son had ended in nothing. He’d failed at rugby, he couldn’t fail at banking, too.

Plus there was no minimizing that he was well paid, too. After a year at the bank, he had a solid savings account and had a decent apartment on the Upper West Side. It was all as it should be, except for the fact that his nine-hour days inside a skyscraper made him feel like his skin was too tight and his head might explode.

So that’s where the crazy idea for a nemesis had come in. It had been his roommate, Travis’s, suggestion. Hire someone to fire him up outside work. Get his aggression out. It had seemed pure madness, but Liam was willing to give it a go. It couldn’t hurt.

“Sure thing,” he told his boss, keeping his voice calm, cool. Collected. All while wishing he was on the playing field, barreling his way through his opponents. His fist flexed open and closed before he even realized what he was about.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Greg. Have a nice night.”

“Got a hot date actually,” Greg said, adjusting his tie with a grin. “So I can guarantee my night will be much more than nice.”

Greg wasn’t a bad-looking guy, though he was short. Liam supposed a woman in search of an arrogant asshole as a companion would find him attractive. But it did burn his britches a bit that Greg was scoring and he was not. He hadn’t been on a date in three months, hadn’t had sex in longer than that. Which might be because he refused to do dating sites and apps, finding the concept bizarre and impersonal. There were eight million people in New York. It shouldn’t be so bloody hard to find an attractive woman in her twenties who’d want to date an Irishman. Didn’t American women like sexy accents?

But when he spent all his time in a cubicle or with a bunch of sweaty rugby players, cute girls were few and far between. Though he’d worry about his sex life later after he got a handle on the whole wanting to stuff Greg’s bollocks back inside his body thing. One step at a time.

“Enjoy yourself, then,” he told Greg. “I’m off for a run.” He reached under his desk for his gym bag.

Greg made a face. “It’s Friday, man, loosen up.”

Uh-huh. He was working on that. Though he’d never thought of himself as uptight. It was just that he’d spent his growing-up years swinging a stick or tossing a ball or rowing a boat. Being sedentary was making him tense.

Ten minutes later he had changed and was heading down in the elevator with three other people. The guy who’d responded to his impulsive ad, Sam, had sent him a text. Liam had briefly wondered if it was wise to give a total stranger his number, but he figured he could always block the guy if things took a downturn.

What’s on tap for your weekend? Expanding your beer gut?

Fighting the urge to take a selfie of his abs to prove that he did not have a beer gut, Liam responded. Running home from work actually.

Jogging or you mean that figuratively?

Literally. I am running.

Or he was about to, anyway. It was exactly four miles from his office in Midtown through Central Park to his apartment.

Shit. Did he admit that?

He was trying to reach five miles. But it was Friday, after all. He had plans with Travis to grab a pint later.

How many miles?

Four.

So you’re sixty-three years old then?

Damn it.

Twenty-seven.

Then you can go the extra mile. Ha-ha. Pun intended.

Liam laughed as the elevator dinged open and he followed the petite woman in front of him out. She glanced back and gave him a sour look. Feeling lighter already, he just smiled at her. She was unmoved. Cranky. Liam didn’t want to morph into that type of person. Not even leaving the office on a Friday made this woman happy? Not good. It had heart attack written all over it.

He texted Sam back. Fine. I’ll push for five.

You got this, man.

There was something odd about texting with a person he’d never met. Liam knew people did it all the time. They met on dating sites, answered ads for everything from apartments to bikes and had no problem with it. But to Liam, it felt foreign, unnatural. He needed a face to visualize. He needed to know the guy he was communicating with wasn’t a complete and total freak. Any more than the average freak. Otherwise, it was like texting with a nonentity and he wasn’t comfortable with it. Maybe it would make sense to meet up with Sam for a pint, just to get the guy’s measure.

I’ll text you when I’m done. But we should probably plan on meeting up in the next day or two and make some payment arrangements.

I’m out of town this weekend.

Monday then? I get off work at six. I can meet you anytime after that. Where do you live?

Brooklyn. So how will I know you actually jogged the five miles?

You’ll have to trust me. I’m the one who wants the benefit, remember?

Liam stepped out onto the street, appreciating the temperate fall weather. It was the perfect day for a run, crisp and clear. Putting his phone away, he started down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the crowd of people. He didn’t imagine he’d ever get used to the sheer volume of human beings in New York. The town he’d grown up in was on the coast, a fishing village filled with colorful cottages and colorful characters. It was small, intimate, rainy, and a bit tired about the edges. Nothing like Manhattan at all, and while he loved his adopted city, there were days where he wished everyone would clear out and leave him be.

But today he didn’t mind navigating his way through the city as he ran. It just felt good to pump his arms, steady his breathing, find a rhythm. Once he’d gone a few blocks he felt better. Tension left his body and his head cleared. By the time he entered the park, he felt great, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his texts. Distance running was something he’d never mastered and usually by mile three he was struggling. He liked the short sprinting and the hard-hitting aspect of rugby better.

From Sam: The ladies will appreciate your increased stamina.

Then a second text. Or the gents? However you roll, leg strength is a positive attribute. :)

Yeah, this definitely felt weird. He had no interest in discussing his sexual preferences with someone he’d never met. Yet it seemed rude not to answer and it wasn’t as if Sam had asked something particularly personal. Using voice command, he responded. In my case, the ladies. Though not many ladies these days.

Why, are you ugly? Or married?

That made him laugh again. For some reason he was picturing Sam as the type of guy who was always the water boy at sporting events. Small, wiry, quick with a quip, slightly nerdy.

I’m no pretty boy but I don’t make babies cry either.

No one who wants a nemesis is pretty.

Was that true? Liam wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as though he had looked into it ahead of time. Plus he wasn’t even sure he was the type who wanted a nemesis. He was just desperate.

Ego just a tiny bit nicked, he decided to send a picture of himself playing. You couldn’t really see his face in it. Just his dirty uniform, his arm muscles. It was a cool shot he’d lifted off the team’s website, taken during a match the previous season. So take that, Sam. He was no namby-pamby.

The minute he actually hit Send he felt like an idiot. This wasn’t Tinder or Zoosk. He wasn’t looking to impress a chick. It was to release tension and the fucking ridiculous feelings of inadequacy his job, and his retirement from rugby, inspired.

Now the very fact that he was trying to impress the nerdy nemesis he was paying to bully him, made him feel like a gigantic asshole.

When the fuck had it all come to this?

As his mother always said, every man is wise until he speaks. The modern amendment should be until he sends a text.

Liam put his phone away and ran faster, harder.