The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(22)
“Yeah, King, come a little closer and we’ll crown you,” cried another.
The room erupted in ugly threats so vicious, Eloise cringed. She wanted to grab her ears to drown out the buzz of menace. Eloise looked at Kylie, who sat rigid in her chair, her face white against the multiple shades of red in her outfit. Turning back to the crowd, she saw Cole leave his seat and stride quickly to the front of the room.
“And you,” Murphy said, returning his attention to Eloise, “are going against my direct orders, holding this meeting. Shut it down, and watch your back from now on. The only thing keeping me from escorting you from the building is the HR nightmare such an act would cause me. Let alone the bad publicity.”
“Sheehan!” Cole shouted as he practically stepped in between them. “Calm the f*ck down, will you? Don’t talk to her like that. Eloise is paving the way for your pet project, don’t you see? You should take advantage of her experience and let her handle things her way.”
“Eloise?” Murphy questioned. “You and this f*cking little princess are on a first name basis, frat boy? Listen, I paid good money for you, a lot of money, so you better sit down when I tell you, shut up when I tell you, suck my dick when I tell you, and go score some f*cking goals.”
Eloise could tell that Cole was about to lose it all over their boss, his mouth opening to verbally retaliate. Then, just as quickly, he clamped it shut. “Mr. Fiorino!” she said sharply, loud enough for the two men to hear but not the crowd at large. “Please sit down. Both of you. We’re in front of more than a hundred people – don’t make a scene! It could jeopardize the rest of the Riot’s season. Stop it, and stop it now!” She turned away from the two men and went to try and speak to the crowd, most of whom were already standing and preparing to leave. “My apologies,” she said to those who were still within earshot. “We have tickets to give away for the Riot’s next home game. Please stay for the draw.”
People streamed for the exit, some tossing their raffle stubs to the floor. It took a lot for Eloise to cry, but hot tears welled behind her eyes watching the disaster unfold as if she stood beside the tracks of the world’s deadliest train wreck. Eloise whirled around to address Cole and Sheehan again but found that Sheehan had disappeared. Cole stood where she’d left him, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she walked over to him.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, his voice hard. “I was trying to help you, and you brushed me off. Why didn’t you stick up for yourself? Or for me? Who does that?”
“I didn’t need your help,” Eloise hissed before she could stop the angry words, knowing they might be the final nail in the coffin that marked the death of their electric connection. “This isn’t about sticking up for myself. I have a job to do, Cole.”
He nodded slowly, his face stony. “Yeah. And I’m just Mr. Fiorino to you,” he said, then turned and walked out as he fired one final shot. The game winner. “Glad I know it sooner rather than later.”
***
Eloise felt tired right through to her bones. The meeting had been a disaster. She’d failed. Taking risks had never really worked out for her, and she should have left well enough alone. Now, one of the richest, most powerful men in business hated her guts.
Kylie collapsed into tears, so she’d sent her straight home, telling her not to worry about the cleanup. She waited while the night maintenance crew returned the training room to normal, gathering up the discarded flyers and raffle stubs herself. When she finally turned the lights out, her feet felt like lead as she trudged down to street level. She’d anticipated having a celebratory cocktail with Cole right about now, but it looked like she’d be drinking alone. She remembered the newsstand on the corner selling little single-serve wines and headed in that direction.
The store nearly deserted by this late hour, Eloise quickly found the wine shelf and decided on two servings of a domestic Merlot just for good measure. Tonight definitely called for a double shot of something. With a powdered doughnut chaser. She hoped there might still be a pack or two left at the checkout and made her way to the front of the store just in time to see the last one being sold. To none other than the Beantown Bard himself. A rose by any other name, she thought, paraphrased Shakespeare popping into her head at the worst possible time.
His Vuarnet shades were pressed high up on the bridge of his nose, and his Riot baseball cap backwards on his head. A few shocks of his black hair protruded through the band. She wanted to snatch it off and run her fingers through the spiky stubble, kiss every inch of his face and tell him she was sorry, so sorry. Her defense mechanisms had gone into full overdrive without her even shifting into gear. Then, she wanted to jump into his waiting car and take him back to her place to f*ck him until dawn.
But she wouldn’t. Old habits died hard. And hers were zombies. Like Night of the Living Dead.
He looked up as she neared the till, catching her gaze for a split second, his azure orbs filled with censure. The hope rising in her chest plummeted to earth like a wounded sparrow when he simply paid for his purchase and turned away. Left her. She watched him hop into his limo without acknowledging her or even casting a backward glance.
Ironically, it seemed their relationship was to both begin and end over a dollar’s worth of doughnuts.