Page 7 of Until Ace

I don’t have time for this. Not now.

I should just go out there and tell Beverly I can’t help Mandy.

I need to focus on the case.

I should put all this behind me.

But… I need her.

And I should tread carefully.

“Fucking, fucking hell.” I sigh, aware I spun one-eighty in a matter of seconds and that this is out of my conscious control now.

Mandy is mine.

She just needs to be made aware of the fact.

Chapter 2

Mandy

“I’m so sorry, Mandy, but I need you up front,” Ken says softly.

His eyes never waver from mine. It’s almost as if he’s willing me to understand, accept and do what he wants without making any fuss. Preferably while I’m on my way back to my station.

Like I would ever make any fuss about anything.

If there’s one thing that’s known about me by anyone who’s ever met me, it’s that I never say no. I don’t cause waves for anyone.

In fact, my own mother boasts that fact to anyone who’s willing to listen.

Hell, she even said it to one of my boyfriends.

“My Mandy, she’ll do anything, endure anything, just so you won’t be disappointed in her or raise your voice to her.”

That boyfriend listened to her, heard what she said, and took it to the extreme. It was only after he brought some girl he met in a bar home for a threesome that I put my foot down and moved out.

I also blocked his number.

What I didn’t do was make a scene or say a word. I just took myself out of the equation.

“But…,” I try to say something, anything that will convince Ken I’m ready for a more responsible position, but he cuts me off.

“I’m so sorry, Mandy. But I will keep you in mind when something opens up.” He touches my elbow briefly, as if to remind me to take it calmly and go back to work.

I almost snort when I remember what my work is.

My station is nothing more than an elevated platform on which I sit behind a see-through desk. There’s a car on each side of me, both slanted inward as if to make me the tip of an arrow. At least they’re changed out every two months or when a new model comes in.

It’s expected of me to come in every day, all decked out and dressed to the nines. Full-face makeup and perfectly styled hair. Also, high heels are a must. I don’t talk to customers much. I direct them to the salesperson they came in to see or talk over the phone with them. Sure, there are also the ones who come in and are adamant about getting my number. I used to have problems with them, but once I perfected my cold stare, they gave up quickly.

I’ve been in all the commercials for the dealership since I started working here. At first, I applied for the sales spot, but I was offered this position instead. And sure, I was flattered. I mean, what girl doesn’t like to hear she’s beautiful and would be an excellent model for the company? I was also desperate at that point. Their offer came at one of the worst moments in my life, so I didn’t take the time to think through what the offer truly was.

Thanks to my family and how messed up they were—and still are—I had nothing, and I still don’t. That flattery felt like a balm.

But that got old pretty quickly, because once you start doing that kind of work, people assume you have nothing else to offer except your looks. My words are often unheard, my opinions pushed aside, and I’m reminded all I'm good for is standing somewhere and looking pretty.

The unfortunate side effect of that cold personality I’ve assumed is most of my coworkers hate me. No one talks to me; in fact, they all do their best to avoid me, which leaves me with nothing to do. I don’t show the cars. I don’t have any paperwork to do. There’s nothing but to sit, look pretty, and smile.