The Middle Man

by Gadziala, Jessica

  Apparently, safety from a man who could truly offer it, and having someone who at least knew part of the story, someone to ease the weight burdening my weak shoulders, was all I needed to shrug off the corporate persona as soon as I walked through the door.

  His door.

  I would never admit this aloud, but I was finding that when I unlocked the door and walked inside, that I had started to think of it as home.

  In my head, I had started making changes. Little things. Things that would make it more homey, make everything that was currently mismatched work together more seamlessly.

  I wanted to change the hideous valances that dated the whole area and maybe the drapes to something airy, something more sheer, letting in the sunshine. I would put large plants in the empty corners, herbs on the windowsill in the kitchen, more natural fabric carpets on the floor, more earth-toned accents on the furniture.

  Oh, and the man was woefully in need of some decent baking pans. He didn't even have a very basic (and in my opinion, very necessary) bread pan. Even if he didn't bake fresh breads, didn't everyone occasionally throw some banana bread in the oven? Even if it was the box kind?

  I snorted at that thought, shaking my head. Clearly, I had not spent much time with those of the male persuasion in quite a while.

  Did men even eat banana bread?

  I couldn't seem to conjure up an image of ever seeing a man doing so.

  "What's the brow-pinch look about?" Lincoln asked, making me jolt.

  It was almost creepy how quietly he walked around at times. It was like living with a cat.

  "Oh, ah, I was thinking about making banana bread."

  "That's a serious topic, huh?" he asked as he made his way to the coffee machine, pouring a mug as he flicked on the electric kettle I had brought over a few days before, knowing I always liked to bring another cup of tea with me for the ride to work.

  "Well, I was just thinking... I don't think I've ever seen a man eat banana bread. Do you like banana bread?"

  "Do you mean 'you' as a generalization, or are you asking me personally?"

  "Both. Either."

  "I can't speak for anyone else. But I like banana bread."

  "You have no bread pans."

  "I guess I will have to pick some up, huh? Anything else I need in my kitchen?" I swear I felt myself flinch a bit at the word my. Even though it made sense. It was his kitchen. Even if I had cooked in it more in the past week than he likely ever had. It wasn't mine. Even if I had started to think of it as mine, started to load it up as if it were my own kitchen. The right cooking utensils, the right fruits and vegetables and grains, the right spices, the right types of flours and sweeteners.

  "Who doesn't have a cupcake tin?" I asked, shaking my head at him. "Oh, and you could use a better set of pans. Yours heat unevenly. It burns the eggs at one end while leaving the other side undercooked. I wouldn't even think of making pancakes in it."

  It was gone quickly, but for some reason, he almost seemed stricken at the word pancakes.

  "Not a fan of pancakes?" I asked, brows lowering, finding it odd that he wouldn't be. He had yet to turn up his nose at anything I had put in front of him yet. And I had served him cornbread filled with vegetables the morning before.

  "I fucking love pancakes," he corrected, something unreadable in his eyes, something deep, but otherwise impossible to interpret.

  "Oh, well, okay," I said, shuffling my feet. "I like them too."

  "Buckwheat ones?" he asked, seeming to recover himself, shooting me a lip twitch.

  "Well, those are good, yes. But I like normal pancakes too."

  "With actual evil white flour?" he pressed, smiling big now.

  "Yes, even ones with white flour," I agreed, smiling back at him.

  His body moved slowly, almost catlike once again, but in a different way, in an almost predatory way as he turned toward me, half trapping me against the counter. Close. So, so close.

  To be honest, as close as I had maybe been wanting him to be.

  I had tried to chalk the feeling up to close quarters, to maybe a bit of appreciation and comfort. He was there, he knew my situation, he wanted to help me, he was attractive, and he was kind.

  It was enough.

  Especially for a woman as starved for male attention as I had been.

  But the more days that passed, the more strongly I felt it. That girlhood crush of mine returned, blazed hotter, got a little stronger, even dirtier.

  One night, after having seen him walking around in his room in nothing but a low-slung towel, it had been torture not to reach down between my thighs, and ease the ache of undeniable sexual frustration. The bed groaned like I was getting lucky when I just turned in bed. I couldn't imagine how it would sound if I actually was engaging in something steamy. Even if it was by myself.

  I tried to shake it off, be rational about it, figure it was normal to fantasize about someone you used to have a giant crush on. Especially when you were living together, existing in close proximity.

  But as he moved in close, as his signature scent assaulted me with its nearness, as his body heat could be felt through both our clothes, as his thigh brushed mine.

  "I've always had this fantasy about a woman making me pancakes on my birthday," he told me, completely throwing me off. Those were not words I had been expecting. The tone, however--deep, rough--was what I had maybe fantasized about more than a few times. His sex-voice, I was sure. And, God, how effective it was. My whole body buzzed in response.

  "R-really?" I asked, hearing the throaty, choked sound of my voice.

  "Yeah," he agreed, head tipping down slightly, eyes holding mine captive, something that made my chest feel tight. "Wanted it for years. Still haven't gotten it."

  His birthday was in a few weeks.

  A part of me wanted to believe he was hoping I could make that fantasy of his come true. Even if the other part of me knew it wasn't what he meant, that I wasn't who he wanted starring in the role.

  "Does this fantasy involve nudity and high heels?" I asked, trying for light and teasing even if my heart was sinking a bit at the idea that while he was a fantasy of mine, that I was not one for him.

  I expected his usual lip twitch followed by a smile, the light dancing in his brown eyes.

  What I got, though, was seriousness, eyes that were heavy-lidded but a little more copper than I was used to.

  Intense.

  It was an intense look.

  And--dare I even think it--heated.

  "Wouldn't turn that down," he admitted in that same sexy, grumbling voice that shivered through my body. Inside and out.

  Body close, I knew he felt it.

  I knew it because a split second after it happened, his entire body stiffened, jolted, spun away from me.

  His hand groped for his phone on the island as he hastily made his way toward the front door.

  "I'll be late tonight."

  He'd practically barked the words at me.

  Alone, I sank back against the counter, body as out of control as my mind seemed to be, leaping from one thought to another. All of them on polar opposites from the other. Some full of longing and the belief that he felt it too, the others telling me I was being silly and hopeful, projecting my feelings onto him.

  The only thing that seemed to drag me out of the swirling thoughts was the clock on the wall across from me, telling me I was already late enough that I was unlikely to be able to get my boss's coffee, and still make it to my desk before he walked through the door. And knowing I would be scolded for it.

  It didn't matter that being his executive assistant was just a role I was playing. It didn't change the fact that I, as a person, hated conflict, that I struggled with being yelled at, with having any small misstep thrown in my face.

  I was someone who cried when they got lectured.

  Not wanting to burst into tears at work, I simply always tried to do well, anticipate needs, never put myself in the position to be yelled at.

&n
bsp; My stomach should have been in my throat as I rushed out of the house, as I got to the coffee shop, as I raced into the office, knowing that Phillip was already at his desk.

  My stomach was certainly not right, but, this time, it had absolutely nothing to do with my job, or my boss.

  No.

  It had everything to do with Lincoln.

  The more the day dragged on, the more I had myself convinced that the heat I sensed between us was real, that Lincoln had reacted the way he had because he thought I was off-limits.

  He probably still saw me as the girl I had been.

  Gunner still called me 'kid' when he saw me. Despite leaving childhood behind--in the legal sense of the word--almost eight years ago. The last time I ran into Quin, he'd been ready to yell at the bartender for giving me a drink before I reminded him I was of-age.

  They'd clearly had a hard time accepting me as an adult, as a woman.

  It wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it spoke volumes to their integrity. Their minds couldn't even conceive the idea that a girl they had spent so much time with could ever be considered grown or sexual.

  It was commendable that they didn't sexualize a girl who should never be sexualized.

  But it meant that Lincoln was struggling to see me as anything other than the young girl who first walked into that office, telling him that the sugar he put in his coffee was bad for him like the know-it-all teenager she was.

  By the time lunch came around, I had decided on changing that viewpoint of his.

  I knew it wouldn't be easy.

  I couldn't be subtle.

  Not if I genuinely wanted to see if something could come from the shivers he managed to cause to course through my body just by his nearness.

  Was it a smart idea while I was staying in his house? Probably not.

  But try telling my body that.

  I was so distracted by my thoughts as I set up Phillip's lunch that I had missed the man himself stepping into the room, moving in behind me.

  I didn't miss, though, the way his hand slid across my ass as he moved behind me.

  Everything in me recoiled.

  My body, previously sparking and warm from thoughts of seducing Lincoln, banked out, went cold, felt slimy.

  It wasn't the first time he'd put his hands on me. As much as I hated to admit it, it would not be the last either.

  I might not have been someone who was comfortable with conflict, but I was also not someone who let injustices slide. I wouldn't bite my tongue if someone was beating their dog or throwing trash on the ground or screaming at their girlfriend, or, of course, someone was getting sexually harassed. Even if that person was me.

  I couldn't claim to have frequently dealt with someone putting unwanted hands on me, but it wasn't the first time it had happened. Sadly, most women I knew had experienced a touch that was not consented to. When it had happened, I always made it clear that it was unacceptable.

  Working where I was working, playing the role I was playing, though, made it so that I had to bite my cheeks to keep the words in, had to endure it, pretend it didn't bother me, and move on like it didn't happen.

  Sure, we were in a new age. Men, even high-powered men, didn't get away with grab-assing, using their power against those who were afraid to speak up. That was as it should be. No man should feel big enough that he could get away with abusing the women below him.

  Maybe he would even get in serious trouble if I went to human resources.

  The problem was, I couldn't.

  I had to keep this job.

  I had to stay on my boss's good side.

  So I had to endure.

  My survival method was to shuffle right away after an incident, never to let myself be alone with him for too long.

  Then try to forget about it.

  I couldn't let it get to me.

  Or, in times when I couldn't help it, I used it to fuel me. To remind me why it would all be worth it.

  I didn't seem to be able to shake it as easily this time, though, as I went through most of my day on auto-pilot.

  "You're supposed to greet people who enter this office."

  Ugh.

  David.

  Just the cherry on the pie of my day.

  I had been so distracted by the changes in my life that I had maybe been forgetting about the serious threat I thought David might be posing.

  As much as Lincoln had tried to slightly quell my fears--while simultaneously reminding me to stay aware, to let him know if anything felt weird--I was still pretty convinced all the things I had been noticing weren't coincidences, that there was something sinister going on. That David was someone I needed to worry about. That he was a dangerous man.

  "Yes, of course. Sorry, Mr. Mantua. I didn't hear you come in. I hope you're well. Is Mr. Harper expecting you?"

  "Shouldn't you already know that? That is your job, isn't it?"

  Alright. So maybe a lot of my suspicion stemmed from the fact that he was a complete jerk.

  A lot.

  Not all.

  "Of course. And you were not on the schedule today. Mr. Harper is having his lunch. Do you want to leave a message?"

  "No, I don't want to leave a message. He and I need to have an important discussion."

  "I will see if he is available," I told him, my cheeks hurting from the fake smile I was forcing as I beeped into Phillip's office.

  Within two minutes of heading inside, they were moving out together, shoulders tensed.

  "Should I put your lunch away for you, Mr. Harper?" I asked, getting a noise I decided to take as agreement mainly because it meant I had a legitimate reason to go into his office.

  I wasn't someone who did covert things with confidence. I'd never even tried to track down my presents after I found out the truth about Santa. Just the idea of being sneaky had always given me a wobbly belly.

  Despite having snuck around Phillip's office before, it still made my stomach sink, my heart soar up to lodge in my throat, a cold sweat to break out over my skin.

  But I managed to force my uncertain legs to quickly carry me into his office, closing the door behind me, figuring it would give me a few extra precious seconds to look like I was cleaning up the food should someone come back early.

  Then, nerve endings sparking off, I got myself back into Phillip's computer, this time at least knowing what files not to bother wasting my time in, ones I had wasted enough time in before.

  Phillip was clearly not the kind of person who remembered every once in a while to go through his electronics and clear out unnecessary junk. He likely just bought bigger sim cards or cloud storage for his phone when he was running out of storage room.

  His desktop was the kind from nightmares where files were layered upon files, three to four deep at times, making reading the names impossible.

  I brought up the finder, looking through everything to be found there, deciding which files to look at now, and which to mentally stash away for the next opportunity.

  I had just opened one which contained files whose names didn't sound like they matched the name of the folder itself when I heard the door in the other room open.

  The mouse flew around in my hand out of control for a long second before I managed to ex out of everything and put the computer to sleep, getting over to the tray just in time as the door opened yet again.

  "Go ahead and finish up, Jenna," Phillip told me. After correcting him for a few weeks, I decided to just let it slide. Maybe it was better if he didn't know my real name anyway. "David and I have a last-minute meeting. I won't be needing any of that."

  With an onlooker, when he passed me to go into his desk, he didn't run his hand over any part of me like he typically would. Somehow, though, I think I would have preferred that to the penetrative stare David was shooting in my direction, one I was pretending to be oblivious to as I shuffled everything together with clumsy hands.

  "I know I left that notepad somewhere..." Phillip mumbled.

  But it was most
ly lost to me because as I stood and moved to walk past David, whose head ducked down just as my shoulder nearly brushed his.

  "Why are your hands shaking?"

  He didn't actually want an answer. If he wanted one, he would have asked in a voice loud enough for Phillip to hear.

  He just wanted me to know he'd seen, that he was watching, that my paranoid thoughts weren't delusions at all.

  Every single part of me was trembling when I made it into the small private kitchen that housed a five-thousand-dollar coffee machine, a fridge, and a small table.

  I wanted to quit, to chicken out, to go back on my word.

  There was simply no quieting the voice inside that said I was tap dancing near the edge of a cliff. It was only a matter of time before I made one false step, before I went tumbling over.

  Eventually, no matter how careful I was sure I was being, David was going to find me out.

  What then, I had no idea.

  But I didn't figure it would involve a trip to human resources or even the police station. Something about this situation had me believing it would get much uglier than that, that companies such as Blairtown Chem handled their own dirty work. In less than legal ways.

  I spent the rest of the day trying to deep breathe, trying to remind myself that I always tended to think in the most dramatic terms as possible simply because I had worked at Quin's office for a while, had seen big corporations call the team in to "fix" their various problems. By whatever means necessary.

  I couldn't claim--especially now--to always be an upstanding citizen, that I did everything by the book, that I saw everything in the very defined shades of black and white.

  That said, I didn't believe that just because you could get away with shady things that you should. Simply because you could pay for it.

  I hadn't really considered that until after I had stopped working at Quin's office. It wasn't until I had gotten some time and space that I had really started to consider the morality of what they did. Maybe not Quin's office in and of itself per se, since I knew them mostly to be on the good side of things, but those that did what they did. Fixers, crisis managers, private security. People on a payroll who could make pesky problems disappear.