Chapter 6

SIX

When I get to work on Thursday, Sutton is nowhere to be found. The whole building is dark and empty, and the door is locked. Not that it shouldn’t be locked seeing that Sutton, as far as I know, doesn’t have a key. Thing is, when I get inside, it’s also dark and quiet there.

I stand by the front desk for a second and listen.

Nothing.

“Hello?” I call out.

I don’t think I’ve ever called out anything here, and my voice sounds all loud and weird, so I snap my mouth shut and refrain from further yelling.

For fuck knows what reason, I peek into the changing rooms and also take a look into the pool area. And then, because I’m an idiot, I also look outside at the second pool, which isn’t even filled with water yet, seeing that it’s still too cold for swimming there.

And yeah, as expected, it’s empty.

I stalk back inside.

He managed two more days than I initially expected.

Good for him.

I clearly underestimated him.

I roll my eyes and get to work.

It’s weird how quiet everything is. Really fucking weird. Did I bring my earbuds with me like I usually do? Of course not. I didn’t exactly expect to need them tonight, did I?

And the silence really is super fucking annoying.

So I start to hum while I scrub. By the time I get to the mopping, I’m singing. I’m not good. I don’t think anybody would really appreciate my versions of classic rock’s greatest hits, but who cares? It’s just me here, and I’m kind of getting into it. Turns out a mop handle makes for a good pretend microphone.

I’ve just finished my best rendition of “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” when I almost jump out of my skin because somebody starts clapping.

I whirl around.

Sutton is leaning against the door jamb, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You’re terrible,” he says with an awed look on his face. “Fucking awful.”

I glare at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I work here,” he says with the highest level of smugness I’ve witnessed from him since I met him.

“You really don’t.”

“Almost.” He shrugs, pushes himself off the wall, and saunters inside. “You’re scaring the rats. They’re running away from this street in droves. Oh shit. You’re like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, only in reverse. You don’t take the rats with you. Which is smart, actually. I always wondered what that dude ended up doing with all the rats that followed him out of town.”

“Didn’t he drown the rats in a river?”

“To be fair, I’m not putting it past the rats that they’re all heading toward the East River as we speak.”

I put the mop down just so I can hold both middle fingers up for him.

And then I frown as I take a good look at him.

“What the hell are you wearing?” I ask.

He looks down at himself, then up at me.

“The younger generation really is doomed,” he says. “This is a tuxedo, grasshopper.”

“Yeah, no, I recognize that you’re wearing a fancy suit. Why are you wearing it here is the question.”

“Quinn dragged me to one of his charity galas as his date, and the dinner ran long. I snuck out sometime between when the band started playing and dessert. I know I’m late, but I’m willing to make up for it, so feel free to punish me any way you want to. I’m at your mercy.”

I stop cleaning the floor and look up at him with a frown. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“A deal is a deal,” he says. “I’ve decided to explore uncharted waters and be responsible for my actions. Just this once, out of curiosity to see if the experience lives up to the hype.”

“And?”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “Can’t say I get the appeal so far, but to each their own, I guess.”

I nod at his clothes. “You get that showing up here is kind of pointless when you look like this, right?”

“You know, a part of me has always suspected I’m too pretty to work, but it’s nice to finally get the official confirmation.”

“I meant the tux,” I say.

He just grins, and I can’t seem to shake the feeling that there’s a self-deprecating edge to that smile.

“Easy fix,” he says as he peels the fancy jacket off and casually drops it on a bench in front of one of the lockers. He proceeds to roll up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, exposing his forearms. His very nice forearms. This is like déjà vu.

I know he’s good-looking.

Okay, good-looking is an understatement. Ridiculously handsome is probably a bit more accurate.

So, yeah, I know he’s ridiculously handsome. But he’s also unbelievably exasperating, insanely arrogant, and a lot distracting, so the fact that he is so ridiculously handsome is information that I registered at one point, but it took a back seat in my brain in favor of all that other, more prominent stuff.

But now… Sutton in a tux is a sight. Sutton in a dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up is somehow even more impressive.

I frown at him. “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to ruin your clothes?”

He just shrugs easily like it’s no big deal, even though I suspect that tux probably cost so much money I don’t even really want to think about it.

“Plenty more where they came from,” he says.

I’m not going to argue. If he wants to ruin his obscenely expensive clothes by scrubbing the toilets, by all means, more power to him.

“So what was the charity?” I ask once we’ve both gotten to work again.

“Huh?” Sutton calls out from the bathroom.

“The charity,” I say in a louder voice. “What was it for?”

There’s a beat of silence, which makes me snort in disbelief.

“You don’t know?”

This is good. This is exactly the kind of unbelievable arrogance and a level of obnoxious privilege that will overshadow any thoughts of nice forearms.

“I do. Just give me a moment.” Another beat of silence follows that he presumably spends trying to figure out what kind of event he was attending. “I want to say heart disease prevention?” he finally says.

“Seriously?”

“In my defense, after a while, they all start to blend into one.”

I’m still frowning at the doorway of the bathroom when he comes out and peels off the rubber gloves.

He eyes me for a moment before he raises his brows at me. “Go on,” he says. “Lay it on me.”

“I don’t think I really like you right now,” I say slowly.

He tilts his head to the side, his expression completely unreadable as he quirks his brow at me.

“Was there a point when you did?”

“I’m not sure. I guess… you have your moments,” I mumble.

His lips twitch and twist into a small smile.

“A compliment if I’ve ever heard one.”

I don’t know what to say to that, and he’s silent for a long time afterward.

“You shouldn’t,” he finally says.

“Shouldn’t what?”

“Like me. Take my word for it. I’ll only screw you over in the long run.” He delivers those words with uncharacteristic gravitas.

It would probably do me some good to follow his advice. To be fair, nothing he said is new information. In a way, he’s just confirming what I already suspected. He’s a privileged asshole. The only difference from other privileged assholes is that he’s honest about it.

That’s the key difference and the main reason why there’s this idea that’s been slowly simmering on the backburner of my mind for several days now.

Because a brutally honest asshole might be exactly what I need.