Crush Me

by Black, Stasia

  “Oh no, Mr. Gentry was very clear that you were to go to his office first thing.”

  I chew hard and try to swallow quickly. “Look, Madison, I’m soaked, I’m just gonna go in my office real quick to change—” but she’s already pressed her little intercom button.

  “Mr. Gentry,” she says in this girlish voice that’s higher pitched than the one she was just using with me, “Miss Cruise is back from lunch.”

  “Why isn’t she in my office?” Gentry’s voice is annoyed.

  “I don’t know,” says Madison, sounding innocent, “I gave her your message right away, just like you asked, sir.”

  Seriously? I just stare at her and she smiles at me, one of those petty bitch girl smiles. Oh my God, why am I surrounded by all these people determined to create drama? It makes me just want to go home, put on my rattiest pair of pajamas, and play building blocks with my two-and-a-half-year-old. Stack the blocks. Knock them over. Adorable giggling ensues. An hour playing blocks with Charlie and all the world’s problems could be put in perspective and solved, I shit you not.

  I breathe out. Remember the bigger picture, Callie. All of this BS is so that you can keep having that time with your little boy.

  I turn on my heel and walk, dress and hair still dripping, into Gentry’s office. He’s typing away at his laptop.

  “Your lunch.” I drop the slightly damp bag onto his desk and turn to go toward my office.

  “Stop.”

  I do and with effort, keep the annoyance and frustration off my face.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you have a nice lunch?” he asks. For once, he’s stopped what he’s doing and his face isn’t buried in his computer screen while he addresses me. Nope, he’s gazing at me like he’s trying to ferret some clue out of me. I shift uncomfortably in my heels.

  “Not especially,” I say slowly, gesturing down at myself. “I was sitting at a café outside and it started raining.”

  He keeps staring at me.

  I raise my eyebrows like I’m waiting for a punch line. “Is there something else you wanted?”

  “Yes, actually,” he smiles and it reminds me of a suddenly satisfied shark. I shift uncomfortably on my heels. Are we finally getting back to asshole Gentry?

  “I had a call while you were out. Only about fifteen minutes ago, actually. Can you guess who it was from?”

  “I never was good at twenty questions,” I quip. I’m ready to get into a dry fucking change of clothes.

  His smile only sharpens at my short reply. Fucker. “It was my old friend Jackson Vale from CubeThink. You remember our dining companion from last week?”

  My breath hitches and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Gentry’s eyes narrow and the metaphor of the shark comes back to mind.

  “What did he want?”

  Gentry sits back in his chair, fingers crossing underneath his chin. “Well, if you can believe it, he was interested in discussing the very collaboration he seemed so against last Thursday. Do you have any idea as to what might have changed his mind?”

  “No,” I whisper. And really I don’t. I mean, the offer of collaboration Gentry laid out at the lunch sounded like a good deal, but Jackson’s distaste for Gentry seemed deeply rooted. Then again, he also came across as a dispassionate man—maybe he can separate personal feelings from business. But no, dispassionate is the wrong word.

  My cheeks heat at the memory. If you belonged to me, Miss Cruise…

  “Well, he intimated that for particular… personal reasons,” Gentry sneers, “he’d rather not work with me on the project. I suggested several of my project managers, but do you know what he said?” He continues scrutinizing me with his head tilted slightly sideways.

  I swallow and wish I had grabbed a bottle of water from the sandwich shop. I shake my head.

  “He said that he preferred to work with none other than my promising personal assistant. It seems you made quite the impression on him the other day.”

  I feel my cheeks go even hotter.

  “But I— I mean, we barely spoke— And I—” Christ, most of what Jackson saw the other day was Gentry getting me off under the table. Is that what Jackson wants me for? Am I being passed around as a sex toy now?

  The rest of Jackson’s words from earlier come back to me. True ownership goes both ways. I would own you, but you’d own me, too.

  Was that all just a line of bullshit? I shake my head internally. Christ, Cals, of course it was. Right afterwards, he called your boss to arrange some kind of business swap, for fucks sake.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Cruise?” Gentry’s voice jolts me roughly back to the present.

  “Yes.” I straighten. “Of course.”

  “Oh, of course, is it?” Gentry asks in a voice just short of mocking. “So you feel that you’re up to the task? You’ll be able to present the drone models we have on contract with the Department of Defense in such a way that Jackson Vale, top of his class, graduate of MIT, and winner of the MacArthur Genius Grant will want to join the project? You’ll be able to detail technical specifications to get him to agree to a collaboration that’s too attractive to say no to?”

  Gentry stands and puts his fists on his desk, leaning over. “Because that’s what a good salesperson does when they pitch. They seduce,” his voice drops. “Do you have what it takes to seduce Jackson Vale, Miss Cruise?”

  My mouth goes even more dry and I feel my eyes widen.

  “If you do,” Gentry’s eyes glitter, “then you can move up in this company. You won’t be stuck as my personal assistant with all the,” his eyes drop to my breasts, “personal responsibilities it entails.” His gaze returns to mine. “If you succeed at this acquisition, I’ll put it in writing that you’ll have paid leave while you finish your degree at Stanford and a product management position at any Gentry Tech research lab in the country.”

  It takes a beat before what he’s just said sinks in.

  “Seriously?” A completely fresh start. The job of my dreams. Away from him, away from Charlie’s father, making money—real money, being able to live quietly and securely. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I bite my lip. Which means it’s too good to be true. Don’t be a fucking idiot, Callie.

  “Seriously,” Gentry smiles. “This acquisition is that important to me, so if you succeed, I’ll give you the things that are important to you.”

  Damn it, he looks so genuine.

  “Go get changed and then we’ll start discussing your pitch. For the next week, you’ll eat, breathe, and sleep Gentry technologies.”

  CHAPTER 8

  And so I do. Gentry makes no sexual advances or strange requests at all for an entire week. All I do is study. Because everything Gentry Tech does is under government contract, I can’t take any of the materials home to study. That means I arrive early and stay late. It’s David’s weekend with Charlie so I come in on the weekend to work.

  I study marketing reports, research grants, and every detail of the defense contracts Gentry Tech won last year. It’s crazy impressive. Far more than that, though, I study the specs of every product Gentry Tech has made in the past and the project up for collaboration.

  These aren’t the kind of long-range drones that are used for bombing—the exact opposite in fact. These are surveillance drones, and they’re far more sophisticated than anything on the current market. They’ll be able to get into territory that is too dangerous for human scouts to venture into, both to detect targets and to make sure there are no civilians before bombings are green flagged.

  But for drones like this to be effective, they have to be fast, durable, and even semi-intelligent. At least intelligent enough to map terrain as they go, to locate possible shelter when there’s bad weather, to react to objects in their flight path, and to avoid other nearby projectiles. According to what the material I’ll be presenting promises, Gentry’s come up with algorithms that push the boundaries of what AI has ever been able to do before in responding to real time situational obstacles.<
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  Frankly, I’m shocked and impressed by what I’m reading. I had no idea drone technology was this advanced. Gentry might be a fuckhead, but he’s an incredibly intelligent fuckhead. He’s pushing the state-of-the-art to places it’s never been before.

  I don’t have access to all the algorithms themselves, since they are the equivalent of state secrets, but what I’m able to see is still impressive as hell. In spite of myself, I start getting excited about the whole thing. This could be my future, being a part of such cutting-edge tech. When I go home at night, there’s a pep in my step as I cook dinner for me and Shannon and spoon mushed peas into Charlie’s mouth.

  “What’s up with you?” Shannon asks on Wednesday night. The night before the big meeting.

  “Nothing,” I say as I hum to Charlie, zooming the spoon toward his mouth again. He clamps his lips shut right as the spoonful of peas mashes into his closed mouth and spatters down his chin. I scoop up the sloppy peas with the spoon and try again.

  “Charlie!” I raise my eyebrows and do a goofy little dance. “Charlie! Lookee here!”

  He cracks a smile and I use the opportunity to slip the peas in his open mouth. Only a third of them stay in, but hey, it’s all about the little victories when it comes to peas.

  “High five, little man,” I say when we get through the jar. “It’s all about the little victories,” I murmur, this time out loud.

  And I believe it. I’ve got to. For all our sakes.

  * * *

  The morning of my meeting with Jackson, I take extra time getting ready. Shannon’s already taken Charlie out for the morning to get groceries, so for one rare opportunity, I have the apartment entirely to myself. Not that I’m actually enjoying the time relaxing. Ha. Nope, pretty much the exact opposite.

  My favorite mantra is back in play as I wet the end of a Q-tip and rub off the eyeliner I’ve screwed up for the third time in as many tries.

  “Don’t fuck this up,” I whisper into the empty bathroom. I can barely hear myself over Adele’s power ballads coming out of the ancient speaker dock my iPod is plugged into. I take a deep breath and then try one more time with the eyeliner pencil. I get it right this time, thank God.

  I have to channel Powerful Woman today. Confidence. I’ve got to land Jackson Vale’s business. Gentry made that clear enough. I finally have the chance to show I’m more than just a blonde with air bags for a chest. I pop the lid on my mascara and set my jaw.

  I’m determined to make this happen. I stare at myself in the mirror. The face looking back is as attractive as I can make it. Still, I frown at the pretty reflection and then sigh. I might want this to be all about the product, but I’m not naïve. Pretty packaging has proven to help things sell whether I like it or not. And I need every advantage I can get. After I finish with my mascara, I flip through my makeup bag and look at my assortment of lipsticks and pull out three shades.

  Shit. Do I go with a soft pink, a nude, or siren red? What’s the message I’m trying to portray? Again, not an idiot here. Each of these colors speaks a different message. My gaze lingers on the red. Yes, it says sexy, but it’s also a power color. And I’m not there to be a sweet blushing pink, or to fade into the background like a nude. I pick up the red, decision made.

  I’ve already smoothed my hair back into a sleek chignon. Putting on the fitted dark gray skirt suit, a chic and expensive number from Gentry’s collection, only completes the feel. I check one last time to make sure everything’s in my bag.

  Shit, my shoes. I grab my black pumps and settle them at the top of the bag, then slip on my comfy pair of Toms for the train ride—this time I won’t arrive to an important meeting with scuffed shoes. I pull my sleek laptop case over my shoulder in addition to the bag. Gentry let me bring my work laptop home for once since I’m heading straight to CubeThink for the ten a.m. meeting with Jackson. Finally, I’m out the door.

  On the light rail, there aren’t any seats left. Of course, on the one day I would kill to sit down. That’s not going to stop me. I hold on to one of the poles and shuffle through the notecards of handwritten notes I wrote up yesterday, studying the points I need to make sure to hit this morning. I close my eyes and whisper them over and over to myself. I’m sure I’m getting looks from people around me. It’s the behavior of a college student jamming for a test but the outfit of a business woman.

  I open my eyes again as I whisper under my breath, “modified aerial algorithms to seek and react in ways that outperform both current military and commercial models. For example, the RQ-16 T-Hawk—” I pause when I notice that the guy beside me is not only staring at me, but sounds like he’s trying to listen in to what I’m saying. I smile awkwardly and shift so that I’m standing with my back to him. Where was I? Right. The RQ-16 T Hawk…

  I keep reciting talking points to myself all the way to my stop. CubeThink’s offices are in a building only a couple of miles from Gentry Tech. Then again, it’s Silicon Valley—everything is just a few miles away from everything here. The Google Complex is only four miles further from CubeThink. All these genius brains, cooking here so close together in the northern Cali fog. But there’s only one genius mind I need to sway today.

  I stride down the steps at the lightrail stop, ignoring the homeless that inevitably crowd the station. I’m too focused on my task to pay them any attention. Don’t fuck this up.

  The train stop is about a block away from the CubeThink building. I stop when I’m halfway there and check my makeup with a compact from the outer zipper on my bag where I keep my last-minute makeup supplies. It’s not a hot day but I’m sweating. Real attractive, Callie. I pull out some oil blotting strips and dab at my face. I smile and see lipstick on my teeth. God. I almost walked in there like this. I scrub at my teeth with some spare napkins in my purse until they’re nice and shiny white again. I breathe out and sniff myself. Okay. Thank Christ I remembered to put on deodorant at least. I opted not to go for perfume, because that just says I’m trying too hard, right?

  I straighten up and walk around the corner and into the CubeThink offices. I am not going to fuck this up. I’ve studied the hell out of the product I’ll be discussing with Jackson. I know the material in and out and upside down, both Gentry’s proposal and what products Jackson’s company is currently pursuing. What we have to offer and what Jackson has to gain.

  I can get this deal made. I will get this deal made.

  I pull open the door and head into the building. I’m let past security and take the elevator up. Whoa. As I step out of the elevator into the CubeThink offices, I’m taken aback at what a different vibe they have from Gentry Tech. From the sumptuous throw rug on the floor to the overstuffed leather couches in the waiting room, this place screams old world elegance.

  Even the receptionist, a woman who looks like she’s in her fifties, sits behind a heavy cherry mahogany desk. She’s dressed smartly, but it’s more what I might call cardigan-chic. Cute retro cats eyeglasses frame her shrewd eyes.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Vale,” I say, smiling and standing up straight. “Miss Calliope Cruise.”

  The woman eyes me for a second like she’s appraising me and then picks up her telephone to notify Mr. Vale that his ten o’clock is here. She nods at something he says and then sets the phone down.

  “You can go on back,” she says to me. “Down that hallway,” she points behind her. “Last door at the very end.”

  I smile, my mouth feeling suddenly dry, as I head back. Again, unlike the Gentry offices, this place isn’t laid out on an open floorplan, but seems very old-school. The hallway is somewhat narrow, with office doors at intervals on either side. But I can see that the hallway ends at Jackson’s door. Of course. Corner office.

  I knock lightly on the door when I finally make it there.

  “Come in.”

  I take one last deep breath and then step inside.

  Jackson stands up and walks around his desk when I enter.

  “Oh,” I can’t help expe
lling a surprised noise as he approaches, hand out.

  “Calliope, so nice to see you again.” The furrow between his eyes softens as I enter. Instead of stoic or brusque, he looks almost… agreeable. Maybe even pleased. To see me?

  I shove my hand out, thrown a little off my game. And I’ve only been in his presence less than thirty seconds. Off to a great start here, Cals.

  I mentally give myself a shake even as I clasp his hand in what I hope is a firm grasp. But not too firm. Shit, what is all that crap I’ve heard about the psychology of a handshake? Be firm and confident? I strengthen my grip but then realize I might be coming off like I’m grasping desperately onto his hand. I loosen my hold. And now that was just weird, so I let go entirely and try not to grimace. If Jackson notices anything strange, at least he has the grace not to let on.

  He quickly looks me up and down. One edge of his mouth quirks up, and then he walks back around his desk and takes a seat in his office chair. Again with the old world luxury—it’s a burgundy wing-backed leather affair with brass buttons lining the sides. I can’t help staring for a second. Who uses such an overstuffed antique chair for their regular office chair? That thing could double as a throne.

  “Nice chair.” It just pops out of my mouth. I bite my lip and wish I could recall the words, but it’s too late. They’re out there and echoing in the lavish room.

  Jackson simply stares at me, saying nothing. He’s still looking at me like my visit is pleasant, though, so that’s… something? A good start, at least.

  “I’m a man who enjoys the finer things in life, you’ll find, Miss Cruise,” is his only response after another half minute of silence.

  Why does my stomach swoop when he says that? Maybe because he’s staring at me the whole time, eyes so focused. I don’t know what to make of it. Come on Cals, is that really true? Damn it. If I’m being honest, I know what I’m seeing in his eyes right now is attraction. And it’s flattering. He’s a handsome, powerful man. But I’m not here for that. It’s the last thing I need to deal with right now. Especially since I can’t be sure if he’s actually attracted to me or if it’s just that he’s attracted to the thing he can’t have—Gentry’s plaything.