Page 12 of The Consequence of You
CHAPTER NINE
CALLIE
The tablecloth is creased, and no amount of smoothing it out seems to be making any difference, so instead of persevering, I display the leaflets in a way that hides as much of it as possible. In the centre, I lay the sign-up sheet before settling back in one of the chairs and sipping my lukewarm coffee.
The table next to me is for an animal shelter, and there’s already a sizable queue forming. When I’d offered to man a stall for the nursing home where I volunteer, at the university’s volunteer recruitment fair, I hadn’t realised who would be my neighbour. I love my weekend job, but there aren’t many people who would choose to work with old people over soft fluffy bunnies and kittens.
As their queue continues to grow and the rest of the room becomes packed, my table remains empty. I feel bad that the nursing home won’t be getting any newvolunteers, but selfishly, I don’t dislike the idea of remaining the only one. The elderly residents seem to like having me around, and I prefer their company to most people my age. I shove my earbuds in and pull out my sketchbook and pencils. May as well make the most of the quiet.
A couple of hours pass and the room is starting to empty. I reach under the table to get my bag so I can begin to pack up my leaflets, when a shadow falls over the table.
“Just a second.” I straighten up to greet the potential volunteers. Except it’s not a student here to sign up, but the man I’ve been seeing far too much of lately. Asher Pennington is closely studying one of my leaflets, like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. I tug it from his hand and place it back on the table.
“You’re at the wrong table. If you’re looking for willing victims to wait on you hand and foot, then you need to set up your own table over there, but I’ll warn you, I don’t see many people choosing to volunteer for Duke Asshole of the Manor.”
“It’sLordAsshole actually, and for your information there are plenty of people willing to serve my every whim. I don’t need to set up a stall begging for it.” He smirks, his arrogance off the charts. Unfortunately, he’s not far wrong. Most of the girls we were at school with, and even some of the guys, would fight a bitch for a scrap of Asher’s attention.
I don’t bother answering him and instead get back to packing the leaflets away. He continues to stand in front of my table, hands in his pocket, idly waiting, as if he’s posing for the cover of the special edition of Smug Men of the UK magazine. I steadfastly ignore him, but as I go to shove the sign-up sheet in my bag, I notice the lazy scrawl across it.
My eyes shoot to his and a smile stretches across his infuriatingly handsome face. When I was bent down he must have signed his name, as there it is in black and white. I go to screw it up when he snatches it out of my hand.
“I don’t think Belvidere Nursing Home would be too impressed to find out you’re turning away volunteers, would they?” He lifts a brow, challenging me. I snatch the paper back.
“You realise what they do at a nursing home, right?” I cock my brow. Lord Asshole has probably never set foot in a public facility in his life. Wouldn’t surprise me if his elderly family members were euthanised before they get wrinkles, so as not to embarrass their good name.
“Now, now, Calliope, no need to be so rude. Of course I know what goes on at a nursing home, but if it reassures you, I’ll ask for my first shift to be with you, so you can show me the ropes.” His smile gets wider as I feel my heart sinking.
“Why would you want to volunteer there, Asher? Seriously, there are lots of other opportunities out there.” I gesture to the animal shelter table.
“Maybe I don’t want to come home smelling of cat piss.”
“It’s preferable to human piss,” I practically shout back at him. He flinches but quickly gains his composure.
“Calliope Messina, how undignified of you to comment on the older generation’s toilet habits. I hope your manager doesn’t catch wind of you talking about people like that.” Urgh, I want to slap the smile off his face. I love volunteering there, and I can’t have him jeopardising it. The health care assistants at the home manage all the personal care, and I literally only go along to keep theold folk company, but I was desperately trying to put him off. It’s bad enough trying to avoid him in university every day, and the thought of him invading my weekend space, too, is unbearable.
“Asher. Seriously. Why are you volunteering there?” I decide to try a different tack. Unfortunately, he doesn’t deem me worthy of an answer and instead flips the tables on me.
“Why doyouvolunteer there?”
How does he do that? How does he keep narrowing down the questions I don’t want to answer? I won’t be giving him that piece of information.
Not now. Not ever.
“Fine. Put your number in my phone and I’ll forward it to my manager. She’ll call you to arrange an interview.” I just have to hope when my manager realises he’s an entitled, self-serving prick she’ll turn him down. Passing him my phone, I watch as he types in his number. He’s grinning as he passes it back.
When I look, he’s taken a selfie of himself and saved his number under Lord Asshole.
Matron Susan didn’t turn Asher down. I don’t know what ever made me think she would. He’s so fucking charming when it suits him. I'm sure he just turned up and flashed her one of his panty-melting smiles, and she ended up begging him to stay.
“Checkmate.” Asher slides the marble playing piece across the board as if it were nothing. Eight moves.Eight.I might have known he’d be good at chess too. But seeing him beat Mr Charles with that level of ease still comes as asurprise. Everyone knows Mr Charles is the best at chess in the nursing home. He used to play competitively, and despite being in his late seventies, he hasn’t lost his edge. And yet Asher beat him in just eight moves, and he made it look easy. I haven’t played for years, but I know enough to appreciate how impressive it is.
Despite the reckless and impulsive façade Asher Pennington presents to the world, he’s one of the most strategic people I know. When it suits him. His IQ must be off the scale. The things he could use that level of intelligence for, and instead he wastes it on being a manipulative dickhead.
As he walks past me, I whisper under my breath, “You could have let him win.”
Asher shrugs.
“He wouldn’t want that. He likes the challenge. Keeps his mind sharp.” I look back at Mr Charles who is replaying the game and shaking his head. His mouth tips up with a hint of a smile as he studies the board. Asher’s right. Mr Charles wouldn’t want pity.
