I take the world’s shortest shower, keeping the water cold in an attempt to forestall more sweating from all this rushing. Having a beard helps a lot with shaving, but I still get serious shadow around the edges and on my neck. I don’t usually bother to shave when I go to a job site, but today is the office. For a very important meeting that I now have …

I look at my phone, which I’ve left on the sink.

… Twenty-eight minutes to get to. I lather up, keeping it light and fast, and manage to nick my neck really good with the blade. There’s no time to treat it, but I’ll be wearing a white shirt and … and FUCK, I already returned Shaun’s suit coat, so I hope a shirt and tie is enough. To make sure no blood gets on the shirt, I wrap a long line of toilet paper all the way around my neck several times like a scarf. Better safe than sorry.

Hair gelled and combed.

Deodorant on.

Pants, shirt, tie.

I fuck up the tie knot twice before deciding to take it with me and tie it later, at a stop light or something. I can’t really do it with my Charmin neck wrap right now, anyway. Blood has bloomed on the toilet paper like a fashion accent, and I remind myself that when I remove the thing, I’ll need to make sure there’s not a big splotch on my skin.

Socks. Shoes. Briefcase of Life of Riley stuff, mainly to look the part.

I manage to remember both coffee and my keys, then descend the stairs as quickly as I came up. Already I can feel a sheen of sweat sticking the shirt to my back, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

I get to the truck then realize I took the door key off my chain. I’ve got my apartment keys, but I can’t get into my running truck.

There are three good seconds wherein I seriously consider breaking the window with a brick instead of going back up; that’s how rushed I feel. What stops me isn’t thoughts of broken glass or expense. It’s the fact that without a closed window, I know the wind will whip my wet hair into some sort of a pompadour.

Back up to the apartment. Grab the keys. Back down the stairs, practically sliding down the railings on stiff arms.

I hop into the truck and peel away. Behind me, something hits the pavement and I realize it’s my coffee, which I’d left on the roof before running up. So much for looking like less than a daughter-fucking zombie.

I spend the first traffic light trying to calm myself. Whenever I arrive, I’m not going to impress anyone if I smell like adrenaline and sweat.

I spend the second traffic light removing my toilet paper scarf. I buy the cheapest toilet paper known to man, like pre-Iron-Curtain-Russia, stand-in-line-for-eight-hours-to-get-it cheap. So it doesn’t come off clean. There are five thousand tiny white puffs that ended up plastered to my neck, because it had been wet, and I’ve been sweating since.

I spend the third red light swatting off the TP dust then mopping dried blood from my neck in the visor mirror.

I spend the fourth light tying my tie, somehow getting it right for once.

I spend the fifth light angry that there is a fifth light. It’s six-fucking-forty-five in the morning, and this isn’t an early-rising town other than the bakery and kids delivering papers. I have no idea why someone should have to stop this often, for this long.

By the time I clear Old Town and hit the sticks, my phone says I have twelve minutes to make a thirty-minute trip. I’ve never been great at math, but I’m sure that won’t add up. I figure I can put the hammer down, drive a bit over twice as fast as normal (So, maybe 150 miles per hour? Seems reasonable) and make it in time, or I can accept that I’m going to be late and look like an asshole.

I settle in at eighty, which is about as fast as my rat-trap truck can reasonably go without falling apart.

The minutes pass, maddeningly slow. I try to make peace with the fact that I’m going to be late. That Mason will likely be angry. That I won’t look executive or professional or responsible. It’s a unique breed of torture. I can’t just give up, but even the best-case scenario has me arriving fifteen minutes late, once I park and get up to the office. But I still have all that time to wait, knowing that what I’m waiting for is likely to be unpleasant.

Goddammit. Damn me, and yes … damn Riley. I knew better. She knew better, too. I knew better all night long and kept reminding myself about it. But I kept making excuses. We were just hanging out. I liked her company. She was a fun, cool chick. I did notice early on that I got hard just looking at her, but I thought — silly me — that I was master of my own dick. I’ve been around plenty of hot women before without having sex. I even hear it’s kind of the default, that most people who sit near each other at a restaurant don’t end up interlocking parts in a truck bed while stalled at a corn stand. But not me. Nope. Somehow, my dumb ass did it anyway, despite knowing I shouldn’t. Despite knowing it’d be the end of me.

And now look what happened. Even if Mason doesn’t somehow find out, hooking up with his daughter has managed to screw everything I’ve ever wanted.

It’s not fair. I’m a smart, responsible, hard-working man. I’ve always done the right things. I’ve always come out on top, despite how hard life seems to have tried to knock me down. I came from nothing then lapped my bosses with their college degrees. I deserve this. I just made one mistake. It could happen to anyone.

But I don’t know why this happened. I don’t know why I couldn’t stay away from Riley. Yes, she’s cute. Yes, I’m definitely attracted to her. And yes, I knew for sure that she wasn’t worth trading everything for — not more than any other cute girl I’ve met in a bar somewhere, anyway.

It bothers me that I feel less sure of that right now. It’s the most absurd thought in the world, but there’s this small voice inside me that says if I get fired, it’s not all bad. Because then the taboo will be gone, and maybe I could have Riley again, if she wants me as much as I seem intent on wanting her.

I try to relax. Maybe this will be fine.

It’s just fifteen minutes. I can keep myself to fifteen minutes late. I’ll look like an asshole, and I’ll have to work my way back into Mason’s good graces. But I’m magnifying it in my head because I know why I’m late, whereas that’s not public knowledge. The way I left things with Riley wasn’t exactly friendly, so it’s possible she’ll fink on me, but she’d be finking on herself, too.

Chances are, I’ll go in, and everyone will see an irresponsible young man who missed his alarm.

The idea that they’ll look at me and see me plowing the girl whose name is on the company stationery? That’s my imagination.

I nudge the truck to go faster. I will my heartbeat to pound slower.

Twelve minutes. With a bit more speed, I can show up twelve minutes late instead of fifteen. Enough to round down, and call it ten.

I can fix this. It’ll be fine.

But of course I hit construction.

Of course, I end up twenty-five minutes late instead of twelve or fifteen.

And when I show up, panting, sweating a little, Margo tells me they got tired of waiting.

I had no idea we were only meeting at the office, then heading off site for our discussions and negotiations.

They’re gone. I tell Margo, with nothing else to say, that I’m sorry.

And she says, “I’m sorry, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Riley