By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

Friday morning, I peeked into the payroll department, making sure the summons wasn’t some kind of Dominic trap to get me to talk to him.

A never-ending loop of every mixed message and rejection from the man played in my head.

It should have been enough to overpower any carnal desire. But every time I thought about the man fisting his cock and saying my name, I went a little weak in the knees.

I chalked it up to cheese hormone withdrawals and doubled down on my decision.

There was officially no way in hell that I was going to a) throw myself at any man too dumb or stubborn to enjoy it or b) become some sexual-harassing subordinate. I needed this job. I needed this paycheck. I did not need my boss lusting after me and then making me feel like a fool.

I was going to buckle down, earn my paycheck, and dig my way out of the massive debt I’d managed to accumulate.

All I had to do was get through the rest of this day and I’d be boss-free for the entire weekend. I had two bartending shifts, a Saturday night catering gig, and a Sunday morning dance class. Plus hours of home renovation glory to keep me occupied this weekend. I would come in Monday detoxed from Dom and cheese and back on track.

Best of all, today was payday. I might be able to buy some actual groceries.

“Hi, I’m Ally Morales,” I said, introducing myself to the woman at the first desk. “I had a message to come in this morning.”

She gave me a sympathetic smile. Uh-oh.

“Ally, I’m afraid I have bad news. There was a mix-up with your direct deposit, and it’s going to take until Monday to sort out.”

My ears turned on their whomp whomp whomp filter as the woman in Marc Jacobs explained about transposed numbers on the routing number.

“So what does this mean?” I asked, blinking out of my stupor.

“It means your paycheck won’t be deposited until Monday.”

In my head, I ran through every swear word I knew. Even some I wasn’t sure about.

“I can take a check. Or cash.” Or one of those sparkling bracelets she was wearing that jangled when she moved her hand.

Desperation sweat steamed up my armpits. Just so you know, folks, Dollar Store deodorant does not cut it in stressful situations.

Marc Jacobs Lady flashed me another sympathetic look. “There’s nothing I can do at this point. You’ll just have to wait until Monday.”

Wait until Monday.

I had stretched the nursing home’s grace period as far as it would go without snapping it like a rubber band. Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. the late fees plus a good faith payment had to be made. I had to cough up $5,327.94. Or else.

I turned and walked out without another word. Into a hallway with beautiful people in beautiful clothes who had never been hungry, never had to choose between food and heat. Or food and their father’s well-being.

It was amazing how many people didn’t know what real desperation felt like. It was incredible that this was the first time in my thirty-nine years that I was feeling it. I’d had a life. A father who loved me. A career. Savings. God. That felt like ages ago rather than six short months.

I had almost $2,000 squirreled away. My paycheck was supposed to cover the rest.

What was I going to do between now and tomorrow to come up with more than $3,000 in less than twenty-four hours?

Maybe I could throw myself on Front Desk Deena’s mercy and beg for more time?

On cue, my cell phone rang. It was the nursing home’s office calling. Panic tickled at my throat.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Morales.” Deena’s wicked witch of New Jersey voice turned my blood to ice. “I was just calling to see if I needed to instruct the nursing staff to start packing your father’s possessions today.” She sounded downright cheerful.

“That won’t be necessary.” I choked out the words.

“Well, isn’t that good news?” she said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t believe me. “If it’s more convenient for you, I’d be happy to accept your check today.”

I gulped. “Tomorrow is good.” I needed every second between now and then.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at nine sharp,” Deena said. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard her cackle just before she hung up.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Reeling, blinded by unshed tears, I started to move.

I cut the corner short and bounced off a hard, vested chest like a pinball. But he didn’t catch me. It was the other man next to him that steadied me.

“Ally, right? Are you okay?” he asked. Christian James. Designer. Dimples. I bet he wouldn’t reject me if I handed over my panties. My brain was a roller coaster of confusion and then fear. I’d failed. Dad was going to lose his bed because of me.

“Fine,” I lied, the word coming out like I was being strangled. Choking on my own failure. My neck felt hot and itchy.

“Ally, what’s wrong?” Dominic was wrestling me out of Christian’s gentle grip.

I couldn’t catch my breath. Label’s classy walls were closing in on me. Dominic’s blue, concerned eyes.

I wrenched free from him. “Nothing,” I wheezed. He reached for me again, and I shook my head before fleeing for the door to the stairs.

Afraid he’d follow me, I went up instead of down at a run. By the time I hit the roof and burst through the door into the biting cold, I was on fumes. Mentally, emotionally, physically. This was it. Rock bottom. If rock bottom happened on top of a skyscraper in Midtown in February.

I dragged in an icy breath and let it out in a silvery cloud. Again and again until the tightness in my chest started to loosen.

“Panic attack. Not heart attack,” I whispered to myself as I plastered myself against the wall and waited for it to pass.

There was no room for panic. No time to lament. I needed a solution. I needed help.

I gave it another minute, hoping for divine inspiration from the goddess of skyscraper meltdowns. When none came, I did the next best thing. I dragged my phone out and dialed Faith.

My best friend’s face popped up on my screen, an eye mask sitting crookedly on her forehead.

“’Sup?” she rasped. Her natural jet-black hair was platinum blonde with subtle streaks of violet shoved up into a lopsided knot.

“Late night?” I wheezed.

“I own forty percent of a strip club. What do you think?”

Ladies and Gentlemen was an equal-opportunity Miami-themed strip club with men, women, and a troupe of talented drag queens.

It was fabulous and even classy in a debauched, naked kind of way.

“Tonight’s amateur night, right?”

She sat up in bed, bobbling the phone. I stared up at her ceiling for a few seconds and caught an accidental nip slip out of her hot pink negligee because of course my best friend slept in lingerie.

“Are you coming?” she shrieked, picking the phone back up.

“How much did you say I can make?” I asked. Faith had been trying to convince me to come in on amateur night since I came back home.

“All participants get $100 plus two free drinks. Then the top three contenders split the prize money. You, with your ass-shaking abilities, are a shoo-in for first place, even without me as a judge. That’s gonna be $2,500 easy. Plus tips.”

She had me at free drinks. And $2,500.

I wanted to cry. And all I had to do was shake my ass. Oh, yeah, and show a club full of strangers my boobs. How was this my life?

“I don’t have to do any private dances or anything, right?” I clarified.

“Nope. Not unless you want to.”

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes.

Ask her for the money. Ask her. Just say the words. Please help me, Faith.

But I’d made promises. And right now, those unbroken promises were the only thing I’d done right.

“You must need cash bad,” she observed. She picked up an open can of soda on her nightstand and sipped through a Twizzler. Faith was one of those annoying people whose metabolism sped up in her thirties.

“Things are getting a little tight,” I said lamely.

“Seriously, babe. If you need money—”

“I’m fine. Everything is fine. What time should I be there?”

She shot me an incredulous look.

“I’m serious,” I insisted. “It’ll be fun.” Lies. So many dirty, little lies.

“Eleven.”

Silver lining. At least I could squeeze in a few hours on the bar at Rooster’s before my humiliation. Every dollar counted now.

“What should I wear?” It came out as a squeak, and I cleared my throat.

“Oh, honey. I’ve got you covered. Or uncovered. Wink!” Faith grinned.

My stomach lurched again. But I had no choice. I was out of options unless I wanted to realize my father’s worst fears. I’d made this mess, and I’d clean it up no matter what it took.

“Okay.” I fortified myself with another cold breath. “I’ll see you at eleven.”

“Can’t wait! You’re going to do great. Eleven p.m. backstage at Ladies and Gentlemen. Be there and ready to bare,” she sang.

“Yeah. See you then,” I said and disconnected.

I held the phone to my forehead in a lame attempt to ward off the headache that was starting to drill its way into my brain.

I gave myself another thirty seconds of fear and misery, of cursing the universe for its stupid plan for me. Then I straightened my shoulders and marched toward the door.

I would do what I had to. Just like my father had raising me. And someday, many, many, many years from now, I might look back and laugh at this disaster.