“Yeah, one and the same.” There was stunned silence in the room.
Raine raked his hands through his thick, collar-length blond hair, his clear blue eyes clouding over again. “Oh shit, sorry bro.” Oh shit didn’t even begin to cover it, but it was a start.
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” And I did.
“Wait. So when was the last time you saw her?” We all looked at Nate as though was certifiable.
“What do you mean? You know when I saw her last. How many times have you heard that story?”
“I know. I was just checking that you hadn’t secretly tracked her down via Facebook and been having clandestine rendezvous, or some shit.”
“Clandestine rendezvous? What do you think this is, Nancy fucking Drew?” The other two snickered. “Nope. This is literally the first time I’ve seen, heard from, or even heard of her in all these years. How fucked up is that?” I suddenly noticed how endlessly fascinating everything about our polished concrete floor was. At least a person would have been forgiven for thinking so, by the way I was staring at it so steadfastly.
Dillon chimed in. “So you literally did see a ghost?” I nodded slowly, sighing loudly. “No wonder you nearly crapped your fucking trousers.” Got that right.
Mel
We rode the rest of the way back to the office in pensive silence, retreating to our own spaces after agreeing a time to reconvene the next day. I wanted to add to the notes I made during the meeting while the thoughts were still fresh in my mind. I reached for my iPad in my purse, only to come up empty handed, before remembering I’d left it again, even after ostensibly reentering the building to retrieve it. Shit. Fuck.
I decided to tackle my inbox instead—it was pretty backed up given I’d lost a whole day to meeting with Martin, then attending the pitch. As I scanned the damage, an email from Faye caught my eye.
From: Faye Kimmel
To: Melissa Reid
Subject: Tyler Beckett called…
Message: He has your iPad and would like to return it. Please call him at 212-383-7915 to arrange. xFx
Oh hell no.
From: Melissa Reid
To: Faye Kimmel
RE: Tyler Beckett called…
Message: Hi Faye. Can you ask him to please courier it to me, or arrange to have a courier go there to pick it up. Thanks. M
Minutes later, another ping from Faye
From: Faye Kimmel
To: Melissa Reid
RE: Tyler Beckett called…
Message: He’s insisting you call him.
Motherfucker.
Oh, so it was going to be like that, was it? If was how he wanted to play it, two could most certainly play at that game. We were going to rip the Band-Aid the fuck off and move on with our lives. I wasted no time in calling him. Life was too short to pussyfoot. He answered on the first ring. I guess he shared my views about wasting time.
“Hi.”
“Hi, it’s Mel.”
“I know. Meet me for dinner tonight, and I’ll give you your iPad back.”
What the fuck? No pleasantries, no subtlety. No ‘sorry for finger fucking you against the wall in my building,’ just straight to holding my tablet hostage. He enraged me, but it didn’t stop his voice from sending a tingling feeling below the waistband of my business skirt, and into my already soaked panties. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“That’s not going to happen. I need my iPad, but I don’t negotiate with terrorists, so I’ll send a courier to collect it if you won’t send it here.”
“Send whomever you like, but I’m not handing it to anyone other than you, so I wouldn’t waste my precious time, or my company’s money if I were you. Dinner, tonight, and it’s all yours. Lady’s choice. See, I’m no terrorist.” Who said I was a lady? I certainly hadn’t behaved like one with him an hour earlier.
“I’m not going to dinner with you.”
“Why not?” Because I don’t know what to say to you. Because the thought of being around you again after how badly I lost control just now scares the living crap out of me. Because I’m scared. Period.
“Because, Tyler, I already have plans. Not that it’s any of your business.”
I hadn’t expected a conversation between us after all these years to be all sunshine and lollipops, but this was worse than anticipated. We were both combative—digging our heels in and refusing to compromise.
“Cancel. It’s Beck, these days, by the way, in case you hadn’t noticed.” As with the rest of the conversation, his tone was abrasive. He made no effort to even try to be pleasant, let alone charm me, although I was a potential client, and that’s what he and his three cohorts were famous for. Despite his flawless conduct during the meeting, his behavior on the call told me that he gave zero fucks about whether BR&ND won Beyner’s business or not. Interesting.
“Oh, I noticed, alright. You said your friends call you Beck, I clearly don’t fit into that category, Tyler.” There was a pregnant pause before he spoke again, his tone clipped.
“It’s a spiel, a sales patter, and you damned well know it. Everyone calls me Beck, at least those who want me to respond. Besides, what category do you fit in, other than old friend? I don’t have a pet name reserved for living ghosts to call me.” Ouch. It hurt, but I deserved it, and more besides. He had every right to be angry.
“Okay, Beck, I’m not canceling my plans. I’m not going to dinner with you tonight, or any other night. Can I please just have my tablet back? It has things on it I need. Namely the notes from today’s meeting. I have to summarize my thoughts for Martin.”
It was in his best interests to return it to me sooner rather than later, and without fuss, if he wanted BR&ND to have a chance at winning this pitch. Surely he could see past his colossal ego to realize that?
“Oh? And what exactly were those thoughts?” Yes he could.
That I spent two hours alternating between wanting to run out of the room, never to return, and wanting to climb on your dick and have you fuck me raw right there in the boardroom.
“I. Don’t. Know. My notes are in my iPad, which you are holding hostage.”
I was about thirty seconds from epically losing my shit. This game was not cute. Had he always been this much of an asshole? I remembered him as sweet and loving, but maybe my memory didn’t serve me well, and I’d romanticized the past to the point of inventing a whole new personality for him.
Of course, the Tyler I’d known then was a boy, and Beck was most certainly a man. All square jaw and lean rippling muscles, beneath his designer dress shirt and pants. It had been a long time.
“I’m not holding it hostage. I’m negotiating. Hmmm…I wonder…” Another extended pause.
“…is your passcode the same as it was back then?” I froze. What kind of loser has their ex boyfriend’s birthday as their passcode twelve years and no contact later? This kind.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes. That’s cute. So…Eleven…Fifteen…”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?” I could tell by his tone that he was enjoying baiting me, but if I wanted my iPad back, I had to suck it up. Story of my life—if I wanted something even vaguely good to happen, I had to put up with something shitty first. Why good things couldn’t come with no strings attached I still hadn’t worked out.