Page 13 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

AT LEAST NOT A HEROIN ADDICT

Alix

“Dude,” Royce said, when I’d climbed down into the trench again and moved up to the next section. “That was friggin’ Harlan Kristiansen!” He didn’t say “friggin’,” but you get the idea.

“I know,” I said. “Help me move the tugger.”

That didn’t distract him, because even as we were hauling the thing, he was asking, “Why is Harlan Kristiansen on our jobsite?”

“Investor,” I said. “It was some kind of rich-guy field trip.”

“You should’ve got a selfie with him,” he said. “I would’ve.”

“Sorry Howard didn’t ask you, then.” I kept on with my adjustments. “And don’t you think that’s a little undignified?”

Royce blinked at me through the rain. “Huh?”

“Doesn’t it seem like you think the other person’s better than you when you ask for their picture? That they’re worth more than you?”

“Duh,” Royce said. “Guy’s worth about a hundred million bucks. I’m worth about a hundred bucks. ”

“You’re more than your paycheck,” I said.

“Maybe in Communist China. Tell you what. When I’m at the bar tonight and that redhead comes in with her friends, I’ll tell her that I’m more than my paycheck and I’m worth as much as Harlan Kristiansen. I’m sure she’ll go for it.”

“You’ll have to win her over with your wit and charm, then,” I said. “And your loyal steadfastness, of course. Women like an honest, hard-working man.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “Why’d you give the other guy your phone, then? You were giving him your number. Don’t try to lie, because I saw. I sure never saw you giving any guy around here your number. It was probably his loyal steadfastness, huh?”

“That was completely different,” I said, even though it might not be all that different. But he’d rescued a dog! Didn’t rescuing a dog count?

“Oh,” Royce said. “That makes sense, I guess. It’s not like you look great in your work clothes or anything.

You’ve got mud on your face, and the jacket makes you look a little fat, too.

No offense. You look pretty good in regular clothes, and if you wore some makeup, you’d probably be hot. ” He didn’t say it like he believed it.

“Thanks,” I said. “I will bear your uplifting words in mind. Hand me that tape.”

“Oh, I got it,” Royce said. “He wants some electrical work done cheap. Man, that blows. My uncle wanted me to do the wiring for his garage conversion. For free! He makes a hell of a lot more than I do, so what’s up with that?

I told him I was an apprentice with barely a year on the job and I’d probably electrocute myself, so I got out of it, but still.

I did my mom’s new ceiling light, but she’s my mom.

Who was he, anyway, that guy? I didn’t recognize him. He on the team too?”

“I’m sure he’s not.” I had his name on my phone now, so I could have checked him out, but I did not want to discuss this.

“He was wearing a Devils beanie,” Royce said.

“So is Carlton, and he’s forty and growing a gut. His name’s Sebastian something. I told you, I barely know the guy. OK, starting it up now. Guide that wire on through.”

I answered everybody else about the same way, because they were all interested.

The scenery doesn’t vary much down in those muddy trenches, so you can’t really blame them.

And I had to admit that it had been a little bit cool meeting Harlan Kristiansen.

He’d been funny, which I wouldn’t have expected, so I decided to put the whole encounter into the Plus column, life-wise.

Or humor-wise, because it had been funny to meet a guy that hot in my ugly work clothes and hard hat.

Funnier than meeting Sebastian that way, anyway.

I probably ought to be thinking about Harlan’s value in my future life, not his value for my amusement quotient. If I finished my degree and went into investment banking, I could call him and …

Well, no, I couldn’t. This was why I’d been going the analyst route. The thought of networking, of schmoozing wealthy people the way my mother did, made my hands go clammy. Just imagining cold-calling Harlan Kristiansen was a whole cringe-fest, in fact. Just no.

“Probably because I’m a princess,” my mother had said coolly when I’d asked her how she did that without losing her dignity, during my adolescent capitalism-sucks phase. (I hadn’t phrased it that nicely.)

“You realize, Mother,” I’d said, “that that’s the worst possible answer. Because you’re privileged, you get to be more privileged? Do you hear how that sounds?”

“It sounds like I’m a woman with confidence,” she’d said.

“I’m highly skilled and knowledgeable, I’m poised, I’m well groomed, and they need me.

And I’m a princess. Being good at accumulating wealth doesn’t mean you’re good at managing it.

They need expertise, and I have expertise.

They’re willing to pay for the best, and I offer the best. It’s not whatever you’re imagining.

It’s a trade. Believe me, they’re happy to hear from me. ”

“Fine,” I’d said. “But I’m not putting ‘Princess’ on my business cards. Not ever.”

“Then you’d better develop your poise, charm, and grooming habits,” she’d said. “If you’re unwilling to use your best asset.”

I wasn’t quite so rabid now, but I also wasn’t using my “best asset.” In fact, I had issues with all of it. That was the truth, and it was time to face it.

That was why, at quitting time, I drove home, got that shower, put on my stretchy pants and the last of my clean shirts, shoved a mini sheet pan full of gnocchi and vegetables into the oven with a quarter wheel of Boursin cheese plopped on top and a couple of chicken-apple sausages on the side, thought, Laundry and grocery shopping tomorrow.

Three days off in a row, and I’m starting them by sleeping until eight, and called my mother.

“Alix,” she said. “Finally. I’ve been worried sick.”

“Didn’t Oma tell you where I was? That I was safe?”

A sharp sigh. “For what it was worth. Portland? Why Portland? And when are you coming back? It’s not like you to walk out with no concern for others.”

“I had concern,” I said, willing myself not to tense up. “That’s why I walked out. But listen, Mother. About those wedding presents. I texted you, but?—”

“A text,” she said. “Who told you a text was acceptable communication? You can’t have a conversation over text.”

“Which is why I’m calling.” I glanced at my timer.

Fifteen more minutes for my vegetables, but they’d be a good exit strategy.

“If Ned won’t send them back or deal with them, maybe you could …

get them from him and put them in the guest room, maybe?

I know that’s still a lot of work, but I don’t know what else to do.

When I can manage it, I’ll come down and mail them all back, but it could be a few months. ”

“A few months?” In a higher register now. “You have to be back for school in two weeks.”

“I don’t think I’m coming back for school.” I had to say it. I had to admit it. Why had I taken this job if I was coming back?

“Not … coming … back?” Now, her voice was at a register only dogs could hear.

“Not right now. I’ll call Stanford once they open up again and find out about doing a leave of absence.”

“Anastasia,” my mother said. “Listen to me. You have two trimesters to go. That’s barely five months.

If you need a few months after graduation, fine, take them.

But life requires self-discipline, and sometimes that means doing things we don’t particularly want to do so we don’t throw our life off track. ”

“It’s a leave,” I said. “Not an abandonment. And it’s not like I’ve never accomplished anything.

I’m a licensed commercial electrician with eight years on the job and foreman experience.

” At her refined snort, I added, “I realize that isn’t an appropriate occupation to you, but you can’t say I don’t have self-discipline or don’t know how to work hard. ”

“Why on earth would you be able to do that,” she said, “but not finish a college degree that you have every aptitude for?” When I didn’t answer, because I had no answer other than, “I like to feel like I’m actually doing something when I’m working,” which didn’t sound convincing even to myself, she added, “And do you expect your father and me to continue paying your tuition after you’ve found yourself, or whatever is going on here? ”

“I didn’t ask you to in the first place,” I said, trying hard to keep my cool.

“I was over twenty-five. I had savings, and I could have applied for financial aid on my own. There are plenty of schools in California that aren’t Stanford and don’t cost what Stanford does.

” At her intake of breath, I said, “But I’m grateful you did pay it.

Of course I am. I’ve received an excellent education.

And if you don’t want to pay once I come back, I’ll pay it myself. ”

“It’s sixty thousand dollars a year for tuition alone,” she said.

“Forty thousand for two trimesters. I told you, I’ll pay it. If that’s the problem, please don’t worry about it anymore. I’ll pay it.”

“We don’t want to cut you off,” she said. “We want to help you. We want to see you. Can you come for Christmas?”

“I only get two days off,” I said. “I’d be traveling on both of them.”

“Surely you can take an extra day. It won’t be at all the same without you.”

“No,” I said. “I can’t. Sorry. I’ll call you and Dad, though, how’s that?”

“And then there’s the wedding,” she said, switching tactics. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s one reason I called.

The wedding presents, like I said, and my clothes, too.

Ned hasn’t responded to me about my stuff.

I don’t need all of it, but I’d rather not have to replace my entire wardrobe.

Do you think you could box up a few things and send them to me?

Pretty please? Nothing fancy, but I need jeans and T-shirts and underwear and socks and my running shoes.

And my good winter coat, the waterproof one, and maybe a sweater or two.

Oh—and my robe. Whatever fits in two boxes. Please?”

“Your father picked up your things from him today,” she said.

“Oh. Well, that was nice of him. And Ned.”

She huffed. “Ned’s actual text to us was, ‘I packed up Alix’s things. You can come get them within the next two days, or I’ll put them on the curb.’ Not what I’d call taking the high road.”

“Well, I did wound his pride,” I said.

“He ought to have more intestinal fortitude than that,” she said. “A man who can’t cope with adversity without losing his composure and civility? Not who I’d have thought he was.”

“Cheering words,” I said, “from my point of view. OK. Back to wedding presents. I texted Ned the list of who gave what, but I got no answer. I guess that’s to be expected, given his lack of intestinal fortitude and all, but we really do have to return them.”

“You certainly do,” she said.

“And I have no idea whether he’s doing it,” I said.

“Probably not,” she said. “Men are hopeless at logistics, and I’m coming to believe that Ned doesn’t do what he doesn’t want to do. Somewhat like you, of course, but at least you’re broaching the subject.”

“Right,” I said. “I don’t want him to start using that stuff.

Can you imagine returning used towels to people?

‘Here you go! Sorry about the stain. I used it to mop up a coffee spill.’ Most of it’s still in boxes in his spare room, so maybe you could ask him if he’d arrange for them to be brought over to you.

Or even better, if you don’t want to store them—why did people give us so much stuff?

— I can rent a storage unit and hire movers, and all you’d have to do is supervise on the day.

I have the list in my wedding database, so I could send a mass email telling people I’ll be returning their gifts and commit to a timeline. That would help, surely.”

“It would be the least you could do,” she said. “But we are not storing all those things for months and having the return period expire. If you can’t be bothered to take care of them, I’ll send them back. ”

“I would be eternally grateful,” I said. “And I know it’s not fair to ask you. By the way—I’ll pay back some of the wedding cost, too. I’ll make a down payment and set up a plan.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “If you couldn’t marry him, you couldn’t. It’s cheaper than a wedding and a divorce.”

“That’s what Oma said.”

“Then she was right. But if you get married again, don’t expect it to be at the same level. I can hardly ask our colleagues and friends to turn up again after putting them to so much inconvenience.”

“Luckily,” I said, “I see no prospect of getting married again, and if I do, I promise you that I’ll be content with a wedding my lucky future husband and I can pay for ourselves.

Just imagine how much money I’ll have saved in, oh, eight to ten years.

Especially if it only has to cover a bouquet of flowers and the fee at the courthouse. ”

“I’m going to assume you’re joking,” my mother said in her most dignified tone. “Pardon me if I don’t find it amusing at this moment.”

“No,” I said. “I imagine not. I really do love you, Mother. You and Dad. And I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “that’s what children do, apparently. Jacqueline Foster’s son is a heroin addict.”

“Perspective is always helpful,” I agreed.

My timer went off then, so I couldn’t mention that I’d met a famous and very wealthy pro football player today.

Although it would have been amusing to hear the top of her head blowing off at the classlessness of my romantic taste, because I had a feeling that I wouldn’t have told her the guy was married.

Or that I’d been wearing fluorescent yellow rain gear and a hard hat at the time.

I could be disturbingly juvenile on occasion. But then, you have to possess a keen sense of the ridiculous if you’ve been born an ersatz princess. There’s just no other way.

I didn’t tell her about Sebastian at all, because what could I say? “His face crinkles when he smiles, but he looks like a wolf around the eyes and jawline?” “He has great thighs?” “He invited me for a burger even though I looked like a lunatic”?

I hadn’t been attracted like this in years, he was a rich, good-looking, strong-willed guy, and I wasn’t even bouncing enough yet to be on the rebound. I was going to chalk it up to temporary insanity. And not text him. Definitely not.

Definitely.