Page 30 of Sweet Little Thing

I’d barely looked her way all night. There wasn’t any reason for him to be a jackass to her. I had ignored her like he kept telling me to do. Annoyed, I walked over to Stone just as he was getting his whiskey. “What did you say to her?” I asked him, glancing back at the house where Beulah had escaped.

“I didn’t say anything to her. Jesus, I was ordering a fucking whiskey. God knows I need one to deal with this shit. Bunch of elitist fucking assholes.”

He always acted like he wasn’t from the same crowd. Born into the same world. He was privileged, just like us, only angry about being privileged. I replied, “I saw you. She looked like she’d been slapped. Lay off. Beulah doesn’t deserve that.”

Stone smirked and turned his eyes towards the bartender, whoI realized was listening to us, as he shook a martini and gazed out at the crowd. “She might be working,” Stone said. “But she’s also flirting. I reminded her of her job when I walked up just as the bartender was asking her out.”

What? I then noticed the busy bartender. He had my complete attention. “You asked her out? She works three jobs. She can’t go anywhere.” As I said the words, I felt like a jerk, the bartender’s eyebrows shooting up, “Really?” he replied. “I told her I had two jobs. She never mentioned she had three. Damn, she’s really something.”

He was impressed. The admiration obvious in his eyes. As it well-fucking should be. He was smart, and anybody with half a brain would latch onto Beulah quickly. She probably got this a lot.

“Did she say yes?” I asked.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Jasper?” Stone growled beside me. “What’s wrong with you? Jesus, she’s the help.”

“You need better friends,” the bartender replied, Stone scanning the man and then ignoring him. He wasn’t one to get worked up over the opinions of others.

“I’m going to find her,” I said. I didn’t have to explain myself. Stone would bitch about it. Remind me why I didn’t need to do this. And Stone would be right. But I was going after her anyway. She’d been upset, and Stone had been rude and embarrassed her. I knew he had.

“Whatever,” was Stone’s response.

I was almost to the door when the caterer came walking out with food instead of Beulah. She paused whenever she saw me. “Is something wrong, Mr. Van Allan?”

“Where’s Beulah?”

The lady frowned. “I sent her to change her shoes.”

Change her shoes?“Why?” I asked.

She didn’t look very pleased with me, but she was trying tohide it. “Because the shoes that were provided with her uniform are two sizes too small, and she’s struggling to walk around. Beulah’s feet are crammed inside them. And she. . .would never complain.”

That’s why she was limping. Motherfucker! Why hadn’t she said something? “Where is she?” I asked, walking inside, not waiting for a reply.

“Sir, I believe her room,” I heard the lady say as I stomped through the house to the stairs leading down to where she slept.

I should’ve asked her this morning when I saw her limping. I’d been so wrapped up in keeping my distance that I didn’t pay enough attention. She hadn’t. . .wouldn’t, say anything. How long had Beulah been wearing shoes that were too damn small for her feet? Was this something Portia had done? I had more fucking shoes than any man needed, and she was walking around in cheap tennis shoes that didn’t even fit her. This was why I wasn’t good for her. I was selfish, self-absorbed and self-involved. Beulah needed to be protected and cared for. The bartender, however, wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t take care of her. Not the way she needed. He was a fucking bartender! Not a CEO!

Frustrated with my thoughts, I jerked the door open and started downstairs.

“Hello?” Beulah’s voice, sounding worried, called out. No one ever came down here, I assumed.

“It’s me,” I replied as I reached the bottom step, turning right into the room where she slept and where the washer and dryer were installed.

Beulah was standing with a shoe in her hand and another on her foot, her eyes wide with what looked like worry. “I was coming right back. I just needed to change my shoes.”

Seeing me, her first thought was to explain herself. As if she’d done something wrong. What kind of monster did she think Iwas? Had I ever acted in a way that she expected me to yell at her over changing shoes?

“How long have you been wearing shoes that are too small?” I asked, turning my attention to her feet as Beulah curled her toes on her bare foot under, though I could still see the blisters and what looked like bruises, making my stomach clench. She’d limped around all day getting ready for tonight so I could entertain a bunch of my friends while her feet looked like this.

“For a while,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“How long?” I repeated.

Beulah sighed and exhaled her response, “Since I began working here.”

Almost seven months. She’d been working in those shoes for almost seven months. “Why? Did Portia not ask your shoe size?” Portia was many things, but being cruel to employees wasn’t one of them. Indifferent, yes, but not cruel. Then she gave me her shocking and honorable response, which almost gave me a stroke.

“They were new. She’d just bought them for Ms. Charlotte before she left. Portia asked me if they would work, and I said yes, they would. She said I could go buy some if not, but I didn’t have money for that. I was making sure Heidi was taken care of, so I kept putting it off, thinking I’d break them in. I found that you can’t break in shoes that are too small to begin with. I should have bought more. I’m sorry.”

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