False Pretenses

Chapter 1 

Scarlett

“It’s not Monday until Abe shows up,” I say through the drive-thru window, less enthusiastically than normal.

Abe, a fuzzy teddy bear of a man in a white Corolla, doesn’t seem to notice, God bless him. His big cheeks, dusted with ginger whiskers, rise up as he smiles at me and repeats his part in our running gag. “It’s not Monday till I roll up.”

I muster a smile somehow. Not even the stress of knowing I need more customers, more sales, and more profits can rush our banter.

“Will that be the usual?” I ask him. 

His eyes narrow and he shakes his head a bit. “Is this a trick question? Are your eyes dark hazel?”

Yes. Yes, they are.

I squeeze my lips together, throw a finger gun at him, and nod. Good point.

Extra caramel sauce for his macchiato and three double cheese bagels, I think to myself as I start on his order. He's been a regular for so long, almost since the beginning, that it's second nature now. 

The thought of keeping this place running and in the black gnaws at my brain cells. Literally everything—ingredients, fuel, energy costs, paper cups, sugar, cleaners—has become more expensive in the three years since I first opened it. I have no idea how I’m going to pay salaries, much less turn a profit. 

I squint against the sun when I walk through the sliding doors to give Abe his order personally, while Chelsea, one of a handful of employees working for me, holds down the register. An infrequent extra service reserved for loyal customers.

Today, however, my walkout is more to get a breather than anything else. He accepts the food without opening his door. “A toast to the best coffee shop for miles and its hard-working owner. I'd love to pay you back somehow for all you do.”

“I think your constant patronage is more than enough, my friend.”

‘Pay me back.’ Just the idiom rattles me to the core given how over-leveraged I am. Without making more than subsistence level, I won’t be able to keep up my donations to the Wilsons. 

My stomach stretches and aches at the thought. Lord knows if anyone deserves to be paid back, it’s them. I bite my cheek and fix my attention back on Abe.

“Not like that.” His voice stammers over the next words. “I mean a nice dinner or something. Anything you'd like to do. Take you out for coffee maybe.” He smiles at his joke, but I don’t.

My eyes move from today’s takeout still on his lap to the two empty boxes from another place strewn on the floor. Then I look up at the smiley face air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. It’s the perfect representation of who he is, a nice, happy-go-lucky guy. But I don’t see him as anything more than that.

Even if I wanted to, I'm far too busy with work to date anyone. A long list of all the things the shop needs for the week flashes in my mind.

I have to make the trip to the wholesaler tomorrow, check our electricity costs, see about getting the middle microwave fixed, and replace the LED lights in the sign outside.

I’m in over my head. Now is not the time for a relationship. “I love seeing you here every Monday, and all the other days you pop in. I wouldn't want to make things awkward between us or worse, lose my best customer.”

He returns my smile. “I’d argue, but you're probably right. Same time next week minus the attempted slide into your DMs?”

“You bet.”

He drives off. I step back into the nutty aroma of the narrow little shop. Chelsea and Lydia are busy moving the line along. 

I join in and we take orders, make sandwiches, and whip up drinks until the cars die down a little. Only about an hour until Beau gets here to take over the afternoon shift. 

“Could you get some more cups from the storage room? We're almost out.” I ask Lydia, the youngest of my employees. She’s a recent high school graduate. Beau and Chelsea are my superstars, though, the ones I trust to open and close when I can’t, who can handle the café on their own without me.

“How many sleeves?” she asks.

“Just one for now. I appreciate it, Lydia.”

“Any time.”

She takes the narrow, steep stairs down to the basement and climbs back up with a hundred disposable coffee cups in her hand.

We stack them together in silence. It dawns on me that our cute, pre-labeled packaging might be too costly for the foreseeable future. 

Maybe we could get something cheaper for the time being. Anywhere we can cut corners, I’ve got my X-Acto knife out.

Once the place quiets down, I sit on a stool at a small corner desk to do some admin tasks. An email pops up on my computer immediately. My throat tightens with each word I read. It's the last thing I need right now.

This serves to inform you that… Please confirm receipt.

“Not the rent, too,” I whisper to myself when I’ve skimmed the whole thing. “A twenty percent hike is insane.”

Luckily, Chelsea and Lydia are too busy washing up to hear me. Our lease ends in two months. Barely enough time to find an alternative location or scrape up more money. I grip my head with my hands, desperate to stop the blood pumping around my temples. 

At this rate, I’ll have to scale down operations massively, maybe even let one of the baristas go. But that isn’t ideal. Roastery Lane, my drive-thru, is hugely popular. I actually need even more help and perhaps a second location soon.

I have Pinterest board upon Pinterest board full of design inspirations for a new location. With the way things are going, that looks like a distant dream.

I spend the next hour going over the books, trying to make sense of things and see where I can make cuts without a drop in quality or staff. It’s a futile mission, but it doesn’t mean I can’t try.

My accountant has told me for months that I’m hanging by a ‘hair-thin thread.’ His words.

I'm too young for this, I think to myself. Surely other 25-year-olds don't have these kinds of problems. Do they? They must be living a carefree life with enough time for self-care.

I think of Yasmine, my bestie and housemate. She’s two years older than me, and her life as a bartender is pretty chill.

Have you forgotten that you deserve it? The voice that sometimes invades my thoughts taunts me again. This is what you get for being a bad person.

But I've changed. I’ve been making up for it, I plead with the voice.

If this is karma, I’m doing extra credit to redeem myself by using the proceeds of my business to help the Wilsons.

I check the time on my computer. The clock shows that it’s almost three in the afternoon. Time for me to go home soon. I started on the morning shift at five, so I’m more than ready for my day to be over. Beau will take the evening shift.

There’s nothing that can happen between now and then that needs my presence. So it's a good time to make my special delivery. Plus according to my calculations, no one is home this time. I’ll be in and out without the risk of getting spotted.

“I'm off for my jog,” I say to no one in particular. “You guys can lock up, right? Doubt I’ll be back.”

Lydia and Billie exchange looks then one of them says, “No problem.”

I turn off the computer, pack up my books, and head out.

My beat-up Nissan Altima is in the parking lot. I jump in and change into the workout gear I left on the backseat, keeping an eye out for any peeping Toms. I chuckle as I imagine the gossip that goes on between my employees about my sporadic jogs.

First, I only go once every few weeks. Second, I always drive there. The jogging part is kept to an absolute minimum. But when I do, I run for dear life.

Yeah.

I pull open the glove compartment and feel for the brown envelope inside. Maybe once I've given them enough cash I’ll actually pick up jogging for real, but for now, I have a date at the Wilson home. 

It’s the least I can do. After all, I was responsible for maiming Jim Wilson for life. It was a botched robbery gone wrong with a few other delinquents when I was in foster care. Dantea, one of my so-called ‘friends,’ got pissed at the Wilsons and set the house on fire. 

Thank God they all lived. After the house was torched, Mr. Wilson spent a year in the hospital getting skin grafts. 

I come to a stop a few homes away from theirs. The street is mostly empty, dotted with only a few parked cars. This time of the day most people in the burbs are at school or work.

I do a 360 of my surroundings. I’m always wondering if there’s a bored retiree or a teenager skipping school keeping tabs every time I come by. As a Black woman, it wouldn't surprise me to think someone's watching my appearance in the neighborhood.

“At least nobody has called the cops on me so far.” 

I pull out the open brown envelope from the glove compartment. Five brand new hundred dollar bills fall out. I stack them together, put them back in, and seal the envelope. It’s already signed with the same message I always use.

For the Wilsons. With love.

My heartbeat escalates as I step out of the car. I clutch the envelope, inhale, and dash off. 

It hurts me physically to tuck the donation into their mailbox. So many things I could do with that money. But I brace myself and run back to my car, panting and high on the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“A drink. That’s what I need,” I say to my reflection in the rearview mirror when I start the engine. I untie my wavy caramel hair and run a hand through it.

The car lurches forward then I make a sharp turn. My destination? Dusty’s Den. The blues lounge downtown where Yasmine works.

But first, a change of clothes.

Chapter 2 

Logan

“Did you cancel our five o’clock?” I say into the phone, flicking my wrist to check the time. Fifteen minutes to five. Fifteen minutes until I leave the office for the weekend.

I lift my legs, one at a time, up onto my desk and cross them at the ankles. I make sure not to knock the landline off my table. My head thumps against the back of my chair while I do all this.

“A little late for a rain check now,” Drake says with a bored drawl. “We should be in the conference room by now.”

My jaw tightens. “This had better be one of your sick jokes.”

There’s a long silence, and I hear the sound of his computer shut down. “Relax. Of course, I canceled it.”

“Hilarious. You almost gave me a heart attack. I’ll meet you by the elevator then.”

The call clicks to an end so I put the headset back onto the receiver. I get up and exit my not-quite-corner office on not quite a higher floor. It’s still good enough for a marketing executive.

Drake and I usually leave the company premises together. I turn the corner, get to the open door of his office, and watch him stuff a file into his laptop bag. He zips, lifts the bag’s strap onto his shoulder, and joins me in the corridor.

“You look like shit,” he says.

“After the week we've had? Of course I look like shit. You don’t look too great yourself.”

“I’m not arguing, but you never let it slip that this place gets to you, too.”

“I can’t say it does, but review week always does me in.”

“Thank God it's Friday, then.”

“You’re right about that.”

We stand shoulder to shoulder in mirror-image outfits. Form-fitting smart shirt, cufflinks, fitted smart pants, and handmade Italian shoes. I point out that part of his prematurely gray hair is sticking up. He lifts a hand to slick it back in his signature style.

“Did you hear back from the city about the beer fest?” he asks.

“We had a lengthy back and forth. They want us to speak with some other vendors and increase our budget, but I don’t want to think about it till next week.”

We set off for the elevator, and I stuff my hands into my pockets. The carpeted corridors muffle the sound of our footsteps. Along the walls are pictures of some of the alcoholic beverages our brewery, Thompson Bottling, makes.

When I say ‘our,’ it’s more personal than most. My uncle and my father founded it. Drake and I head the marketing department. And, what can I say, it's a great gig.

“Hey, if it isn't the guys from marketing.” It’s Ed.

“If it isn't the guy from accounting,” we respond in unison.

“You two ready for the weekend?” Ed asks.

“This one's been ready since Tuesday,” Drake says, pointing at me.

“Give me a break. We can't all be as ambitious as you, Drake.”

The truth is I am as ambitious as Drake. I have a legacy that I want to be a part of. But my uncle wants to make sure that I earn it, which can sometimes be an uphill battle. He still sees me as the teenager he raised rather than the successful marketing executive who has helped his company become one of the country’s largest beverage companies.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. “You didn't hear it from me, but word on the street is there's an open board position up for grabs.”

My eyes widen as I turn to him. A surge of excitement rushes up my spine. I envision all my years of hard work, standing by the corporate finish line, cheering me on. Almost there.

“Is that so?” I ask nonchalantly. “Where did you hear this from?”

“Can’t tell you. But get this, the person most likely to get it is Warren.”

The cheering in my head stops. All the other hypothetical frontrunners might seem poised to bypass me. I feel a crick in my neck. 

“Warren? Production manager Warren?”

“The very one.”

“Does he know?” I ask.

“Not that I’m aware of. The higher-ups haven’t yet announced it but if it’s floating around the office then it might reach his ears soon.”

“But he’s a plant and operations guy, not a corporate guy.”

I get the urge to rip off my collar because of the heat rising up my neck despite the conditioned air. I also sense Drake’s eyes on me. He hasn’t said much since Ed’s little revelation.

The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors slide open again. Ed sidles out first. I exit last with my fists clenched.

Ed turns around. “Don't shoot the messenger. And remember, you didn't hear it from me.” Then he disappears into the crowd in the mid-rise building's foyer.

Warren? I can't believe it. Is it because he's older than me? I've been here longer than him, and I know this company inside out. I have a good track record. How could I get passed over? Is my uncle afraid of being accused of nepotism?

We walk out of the double glass doors and walk to our cars. I stop next to my black Maybach GLS 600 and turn to Drake. “Do you think he's lying?”

“What reason would he have to lie?

I ignore him. “I'm the obvious choice. I can’t believe Uncle Gerry would do this.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t take this out on Gerry. He didn’t make this decision on his own.”

“No shit. But he holds a lot of sway as the largest shareholder.”

I exhale and unlock the car, but I linger for a moment to keep talking to Drake, even though we’re about to go to the same place.

“I mean, I get your frustration. Everybody knows you’re gunning for a top spot, but why do you want to peak so early? You’re only thirty.”

“But what does age have to do with it at all? If I’m capable now, then why wait till I’m all used up? I’ve proven myself, over and over. Haven’t I?”

He nods unconvincingly.

“What’s that face?”

“A lot of people have proven themselves over and over, Logan. We have a lot of talent.”

“I just aced my review. I’ve aced all my reviews since I got here. I guess I just feel slighted. I feel like if my uncle saw me as an adult and not a kid, as more mature and settled, he might take another look at me.”

“You might hate me for this, but I won’t bullshit you. Warren is a capable guy. You’ve seen how he’s whipped the plant into shape and how much he contributed to our ad campaigns. The guy is multi-faceted and multi-talented. And he has hands-on experience with manufacturing, which no one on the board has.”

Drake’s tone is serious. He only gets like this when trying to get a point across. 

“I can’t believe you’re doubting my track record. You of all people should have my back,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Don’t conflate my recognizing the other guy with disregarding you. Like I said earlier, I get your frustration, I do. You’re driven, and Gerry definitely sees that, too.”

The sound of my uncle’s name makes me see red. I’m definitely not about to let Warren best me so easily. 

Drake continues. “When the time is right, maybe he will appoint you to the board. Don’t take this as a slight. But running an international business comes with more concerns than just your ego. Take this as more time to improve or whatever the hell a motivational speaker would say.”

He pauses, examining my expression. “You know how we should end this day?” he asks.

“How?”

“A drink at Dusty’s.” Dusty’s has been our favorite spot since we discovered it last year. It’s a retro blues bar near downtown with great tunes on the old-fashioned jukebox.

I nod. “Yeah, I definitely have the perfect excuse to drown my sorrows.”

“Who knows, we might even find an answer to your woes at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.”

He clicks his Lexus keys, and the chirp rings out. 

“Okay, dude. We'll talk more once we get to Dusty’s,” I tell him. 

“Drive safely. Don’t let your temper get the better of you.”

“Yes, Mom.”

I get into my car and head out. My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white on my way to Dusty’s.