Alpha Mail

by Brenda Rothert

  #WTFisthisWTFery

  THE NEXT MORNING, there’s a new energy in the Alpha Mail offices. Everyone is buzzing about the successful pitch and our impending growth.

  Dane, the darkest and broodiest of the alphas on my staff, growls at me as we pass each other in the hallway.

  “I hope a decent coffeemaker is part of the office remodel.” He narrows his eyes in a glare as he raises his stainless mug in the air. “This shit tastes like sewage.”

  “Doesn’t all shit taste like sewage?” I quip.

  He’s not amused. But at least he keeps his commentary about the old coffeemaker to himself and walks on.

  Why women like talking to a guy who seems perennially pissed off is beyond me, but we have clients who love Dane. He’s a bartender by night, and he’s also a full-time student in business school. Maybe he’s always pissed because he’s so tired.

  When I walk into my office, there’s an enormous, exotic-looking vase of flowers on my desk. Bright oranges and pinks are mixed with tropical greenery. I furrow my brow and reach for the white card tucked beneath the vase.

  I open it and read the neat, handwritten message.

  Congratulations on your successful pitch. I’m very much looking forward to working with you.

  —Ben Durant

  My brows shoot up in surprise. I look at the flowers again, and then read the words on the notecard one more time.

  Is this just a professional courtesy, or something more? I hope it’s the former, because I don’t need any personal feelings getting in the way of a relationship with an investor. Even one who looks like Ben Durant.

  Which one was he, anyway? He and his brother look so much alike, I don’t know how anyone can tell them apart. I decide it doesn’t matter, move the flowers over to a table in my office, and sit down at my desk.

  Jane walks in then, nearly silent as she carries a cup of coffee to my desk and sets it down. I eye the Starbucks cup as I slide on my reading glasses.

  “How’s our office coffeemaker?” I ask her.

  She opens her mouth to respond but closes it again, seemingly lost for words. I smile.

  “Can you pick up a new one today?”

  “Sure. I would have mentioned it, but we had a freeze on expenses, so . . .”

  “No, I understand. I’m going to relax that now that our investment came through.”

  I take a sip of the Pike Place that’s my lifeblood. I pay for my Starbucks fixes out of my personal expense account, but I still want to provide good coffee for the staff here.

  “These are gorgeous.” Jane walks over to the bouquet of flowers and brushes her fingertips across the petals of an orange flower. “It’s not your birthday, though. Some other occasion?”

  She’s fishing. If there’s office gossip, she always wants to be the first to know. And since it’s common knowledge that I haven’t been on a date in a long time, I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She thinks I’ve got a man, and she wants to tell the entire office.

  I should tell her the truth—that they’re just from a colleague. But I kind of like to make her suffer.

  “Hmm?” I feign distraction, looking up from my computer. “Oh, not really.”

  “Was there a card? Or are they from a secret admirer?”

  “There was a card.”

  “Mmm.” She leans, searching to see if it’s tucked into the blooms.

  Too bad for her it’s on my desk.

  “Let’s cater in lunch for everyone today,” I say.

  “I’ll get right on it.” With a new task to focus on, Jane turns away from the flowers and heads for the door. “Where would you like me to order from?”

  I consider. “How about that deli Gretchen’s brother owns? Their food is always good.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  She leaves my office, and I click on the icon to open my email. It takes me almost half an hour to respond to the messages of congratulations on yesterday and interest from investors. There are even messages from investors who weren’t here yesterday but heard about it from people who were.

  It feels amazing to have so many people eager to sink money into Alpha Mail. Yesterday did go very well, but that was the culmination of years of hard work. And it’s not over. The hardest work is likely ahead, as I maximize every dollar and grow the business as wisely as I can.

  There’s only one message remaining, and it’s from an address I don’t recognize.

  * * *

  To: smills@alphamail.com

  From: RoughRider16@bysmail.com

  Re: newspaper article

  Ms. Mills,

  Just wanted to tell you I enjoyed the article in the Sun about your business. You’re clearly a driven woman, and I have no doubt Alpha Mail will continue to thrive under your leadership.

  However, you’ve got a few things to learn about the nature of a strong man. You said in the article that you’ve dated alphas before, but trust me—you haven’t.

  Roll your eyes all you want. I can help you up the game at your business if you’re willing to listen.

  Awaiting your response.

  * * *

  I furrow my brow, lean back in my chair, and then immediately lean forward to read the unsigned message again. Yep, it’s still obnoxious. I shake my head and write back a quick response.

  * * *

  To: RoughRider16@bysmail.com

  From: smills@alphamail.com

  Re: newspaper article

  Thanks for your offer, but your advice isn’t needed.

  Sienna Mills

  * * *

  I give the anonymous emailer credit for one thing and one thing only. I did roll my eyes as I read his message. I don’t claim to be perfect; I built my business through hard work and trial and error. But if there’s something I am an expert in, it’s men who think they know it all.

  Time and again, I ran into men like that one. They drank in my body with their eyes and then told me I’d be begging them to do all sorts of filthy things to me in no time flat. Told me they knew my body better than I did. Flexed their muscles and said they wanted to own me. I was actually told not to “worry my pretty little head” once.

  There’s nothing sexy about being treated like a possession. Having a man lose his shit because another man looked at me isn’t hot, it’s embarrassing.

  Carmen and I are both living proof that women really can do it all on our own. Jack’s father, Danny, promised he’d raise their child by Carmen’s side and then ditched out right after his birth. And I built my business on my own, with no help from anyone I wasn’t paying to work for me.

  We both may be perennially exhausted, but it’s been years since either of us had a serious relationship, and neither of us wants one. Our emotional support comes from each other.

  I’ve got a best friend I can rely on and a top-of-the-line vibrator I can also rely on. That’s my definition of fulfillment.

  The sweet scent of the nearby flowers drifts over to my desk, and I feel a pang of guilt for dismissing Ben’s kind gesture so quickly.

  I type out a quick email to him.

  * * *

  Ben,

  Thanks for the lovely flowers. That was so thoughtful of you. I’m also looking forward to moving Alpha Mail forward in partnership with the investors.

  Best,

  Sienna

  * * *

  There. I thanked him without making it sound like I’m interested in anything more than a business relationship.

  Been there, done that. And if I had a T-shirt, it would say “Over it.”

  I open an internet browser to start looking for a local interior designer to redecorate Jack’s bedroom. He loves Star Wars, and I want to surprise him with a makeover.

  What drives me these days, other than growing Alpha Mail, is anything that makes Jack smile. I can see why Carmen has lost herself in her son—that gap-toothed grin of his makes me warmer inside than anything ever has.

  This is unconditional love. It fuels me and guts
me at the same time. Lifts me high into the air and then drops me to the cold, hard ground. Loving Jack is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but one day, it’s going to break my heart into a million pieces.

  Not today, though. Today, I’ll keep moving forward, and I’ll see the joy around me, just like Jack does.

  #notalass

  WHEN I GET to my office the next morning, Dane grunts his approval for the new coffeemaker as we pass in the hallway. I’m half smiling when Kell walks by and winks at me.

  “Mornin’, lass.”

  “It’s Sienna,” I remind him—again.

  My partial smile disappears when I get to my office and open my email. The attorney for Alpha Mail sent me paperwork to review, and one contract is thirty-three pages long. I know what I’ll be doing all morning.

  There’s also another message waiting in my inbox, and it makes me scowl. Though I know it’s only going to aggravate me, I can’t help opening it anyway, out of sheer curiosity.

  * * *

  To: smills@alphamail.com

  From: RoughRider16@bysmail.com

  Re: so touchy

  Sienna,

  You must’ve read my message pre-first cup of coffee yesterday. You seem too savvy to dismiss quality help when it’s offered for nothing.

  Do you doubt my prowess? I suppose I understand that. There are lots of men out there who claim to know what turns women on, but most of them are all talk.

  I’m not. Here’s a piece of advice you can take or leave—your choice. In the Sun article, you said alphas are possessive. I disagree. When I’m with a woman, I don’t have to keep my eyes on every other man in the room. I don’t have to remind her she’s mine. You know why? I’m not insecure. Why would any woman crave a cheap hamburger when she’s got prime rib at her disposal?

  I’ve never told a woman she’s mine, but I’ve sure as hell shown a few. A real man shows that with his reverence.

  Actions. They set a true alpha apart from a wannabe. You’d know if you’d been with a man like me. I open doors. I pay for dinner. I walk on the side of the road closest to traffic. I get soaked in the rain while holding the umbrella over my partner. I make sure she knows that, to me, she’s the only woman in the world.

  If you want more advice, you need only ask. I’m at your service.

  * * *

  I gasp at my laptop screen, wondering if this is actually one of my friends toying with me. I don’t know who would do that. Then again, would an anonymous stranger really be this arrogant and assuming?

  Ah. Right. He’s a man, so . . . yeah.

  I fire back a response.

  * * *

  To: RoughRider16@bysmail.com

  From: smills@alphamail.com

  Dear nameless benefactor,

  I suppose you’re the prime rib in this scenario? Please don’t bother telling me what cuts of meat you assign to your dates. Of which there are dozens—no, hundreds. I get it.

  I’m starry-eyed, is that what you want to hear?

  * * *

  I hit “Send,” exhale deeply, and open the contract. When I read legalese, I go slowly, making sure I’m taking in every sentence and considering the implications. I’ve marked up the first thirty pages of the document when I look at the clock and realize I’ve been working on it for more than three hours.

  After taking off my reading glasses, I rub my eyes, put the glasses back on, and open my email. And of course, among the messages in my inbox is one from the mystery man.

  * * *

  To: smills@alphamail.com

  From: RoughRider16@bysmail.com

  Re: still touchy

  Sienna,

  You aren’t the first woman I’ve made starry-eyed. Usually, though, I actually get to see the stars in their eyes. I’ll just have to imagine yours.

  And no, I haven’t dated hundreds of women. In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve had a serious relationship. It’s not about quantity. If I’m not with a woman I’m crazy about, I don’t want to waste her time or mine.

  What about you? You said in the article that your inspiration for Alpha Mail was your own failed love life. Are you really the best person to be helping the lovelorn?

  Your cheeks are rosy right now, aren’t they? Bet that happens every time you get angry. You’re a classic redhead, aren’t you? Fiery temper, fierce loyalty, and independent to a fault.

  Have a good afternoon. And thanks for acknowledging that I am, in fact, your benefactor.

  * * *

  I scoff at my screen with disgust. This guy. I know I shouldn’t waste another second of my time on him. He’s obviously baiting me and I’m falling for it, but it’s like my hands are going to the keyboard without my mind even having a say.

  I’m about to send him a scathing response when Jane opens the door to my office and sticks her head into the room, her expression frantic.

  “Our server is down.”

  “We have redundancy. We’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  “We’re not okay. There’s no internet. None of the alphas can get their messages through on the computers.”

  I stand up and head out of my office, going straight to the small, freezing cold server room where my two IT guys work.

  “We’re on it,” one of them says as soon as I walk in.

  “What’s going on?” I ask them.

  “We don’t know. It’s not just us. There has to be a cut cable somewhere or something.”

  I nod and lean against the doorframe. “What can we do?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  By his tone, and the looks of intense concentration on the faces of both IT guys, I can tell they want to be left alone to do their work. And I can understand that. When I’m in the midst of an office crisis, the last thing I want to do is stop and explain it all to someone who doesn’t understand.

  “Keep me updated,” I say, leaving the room.

  The internet service interruption ends up dominating my afternoon. Between upset customers and cranky alphas complaining about having to text old-school by phone—the horror—I’m putting out fires until evening.

  I finally make it back to my office a little after six p.m., when—finally—the internet service is restored. I’m too wiped out to finish the contract or check my email. I haven’t even eaten today.

  When I pick up my phone and glance at the screen, there’s a message from Coop.

  COOP: Hey sis, come hang out with me at Lucky Seven tonight. Haven’t seen you in forever.

  He’s right; it has been too long. And I’m so hungry that even bar food from the pub the off-duty firefighters frequent will taste good.

  I grab my bag and head out of the office, driving my sedan the five miles to Lucky Seven in less than half an hour, which isn’t bad considering rush-hour traffic.

  The place is a dive, with wood floors, walls covered with vintage beer signs and blaring honky-tonk music. But it has a great vibe—full of warmth and laughter. My older brother calls out my name and slides the brunette off his lap when he sees me approaching.

  “Hi, kid.” He hugs me, and the brunette gives me a dirty look. “Glad you came.”

  Coop pulls out a high barstool for me at his table, and I sit down. He heads to the bar to get me a drink, knowing I want a white wine without having to ask, and a blond waitress stops him on his way, batting her eyelashes as she balances a tray full of food in the air.

  My brother is a shameless flirt. Though his relationships never last longer than a carton of milk, every new woman seems to think she’s the one who will change him. And with his dark, wavy hair, broad shoulders, and blue eyes, he has no trouble attracting new ones.

  “Hey, Pup.”

  I look over my shoulder and smile at my brother’s childhood best friend, Ryan. He’s known me since I was a little girl with skinned knees and pigtails, trailing around the neighborhood after him and Coop. They said I looked like a lost puppy back then, and the nickname stuck with Ryan. He’s like a second older brother to me.
>
  “Hey, you.” I give him a quick hug from my barstool.

  “Coop said your business is doing well. Good for you.”

  “Yeah, it’s been good. Thanks.”

  A guy in a navy-blue T-shirt worn by firefighters in Coop’s department covers my hand with his on the table.

  “Hey, you’re Coop’s sister? I’m Lorenzo, his—”

  “Fuck off,” Ryan interjects, making a shooing motion.

  “But I’m just—”

  Ryan shakes his head. “You don’t want him to see you touching his little sister, man, trust me. Fuck off.”

  Lorenzo looks him over, seeming to decide with Ryan’s size that it’s not worth challenging him. He leaves, and I give Ryan a look of annoyance.

  “Really?”

  “You know I’m right.”

  “I know you’re both over the top with the protectiveness. I can take care of myself. And I’m a grown woman, you know? Maybe I’m looking for a date.”

  Ryan furrows his brow. “Not in a shithole bar, Pup.”

  Coop returns, handing Ryan a bottled beer and me a glass of wine.

  “To my baby sister,” he says, holding up his own bottle for a toast. “Kicking ass and taking names. I’m proud of you.”

  We clink and drink. As Coop slides back onto his stool, I notice his “Oakhurst Football” T-shirt.

  “Is that Ryan’s team?” I ask him.

  He grins. “Yep. I’m an assistant coach.”

  I look at Ryan, who’s also grinning.

  “The two of you, together, as role models for high school boys? Wow.”

  “Hey, now.” Ryan cocks a brow at me. “I’m a great coach. Hell, I only got the teaching job at Oakhurst so I could coach this team.”