Layers
TL Alexander
Copyright © 2013 TL Alexander
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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To Rick, my husband and best friend.
Thanks for never complaining about all the
nights and days of cereal again.
Life without you would truly suck.
TL
CONTENTS
THE BEGINNING OF THE MIDDLE
THE FREAKIN’ SIMS ACCOUNT
SECURITY ESCORT
GOING UP
HOLY BEDROCK!
ARE YOU F-IN’ KIDDING ME?
SO NOW WHAT?
NOT EVERYBODY HATES ME
CRUELL DEVILLE
HOME NOT SO SWEET HOME
THE CEO MAKES HIS OFFER
FLIRTING WITH TROUBLE
CEO POV
TO MUCH BEEBNESS
BARBIE LOVES KEN
THE KING RETURNS TO HIS CASTLE
THE SHINDIG
HIGH DIVING
THE PARTY IS OVER
BATTLE OF THE SEXES
JANE LIKE TARZAN
THE DILEMMA
THE WET SPOT
EVEN GODS HAVE SECRETS
NATURE CALLING
AND THEY ALL CAME TUMBLING DOWN
THE MAN KNOWS HOW TO CLEAR A DESK
CEO POV II
BACK TO THE CITY
SHE TALKS TOO MUCH
DID THAT JUST HAPPEN
MY TWO BELOVED GAYWADS
MIAMI HEAT
THE SPA TREATMENT
LONDON CALLING
FLASH BACK FOUR YEARS—LONDON GRANT HOUSE
WHAT THE HELL?
PRESENT DAY LONDON STILL CALLING
ABSOLUTELY NO FRIGGIN’ WAY
UNBELIEVABLE!
AFTER SHOCKS
ZANE FREAKIN’ BLACK
NO GLASS SLIPPER
AUTHOR NOTES
THE BEGINNING OF THE MIDDLE
Hello it’s me. Freakin’ Alexia. And this is my story.
I’m going to start my story in the middle. Why, you ask? Because If I start at the beginning, we’ll be here for a freakin’ decade, and if I start at the end, what’s the fun in that? So here’s my story, beginning in the middle.
THE FREAKIN’ SIMS ACCOUNT
“I can’t believe we’re still auditing this freakin’ Sims account” my assistant, Dale Adams says, and then slumps back into his chair. “We sent the freakin’ ass thing to Frankie five freakin’ times while you were basking in the freakin’ Tuscan sun.”
Dale says, “freakin’” a lot—don’t you think? It’s a testament of having worked with the slang-slinging master—me. Freakin’ just
happens to be one of my favorites. It’s freakin’ awesome.
“Tuscany’s in Italy, you idiot. I was in France.”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Okay” I sigh. “Let’s just fix the damn audit and hand it over to legal on Friday. If the asswipe rejects it again, I’ll talk to Ryan when he gets back from Korea.”
“Boss-man returned last week.”
I look up from my laptop. “Why?”
“Don’t know, but I’ve heard tons of ridiculous rumors.” He rolls his eyes. “He contracted the Bird flu and was rushed out of the country. He ate contaminated oysters—acquiring mercury poisoning. And my personal favorite—his client kicked him out of the country for getting soused on sake then sleeping with his daughter, or was it his wife…or both? Shit, who knows? You know what it’s like around here; rumors spread faster than a flesh–eating bacteria.”
“You’re right about that––but I don’t think they drink sake in Korea?”
Dale rolls his eyes. He does that a lot.
“Whatever. Like I said, ridiculous rumors. However, I did run into his PA’s new assistant, Claire, and she said he was called back for an emergency partners’ meeting. “She also said,” he whispers and I haven’t a clue why, “that Ryan hasn’t left his office suite in four days.”
I frown. “I hope he’s okay. Hell, nobody wants the Bird Flu, or any other kind of flu. Remember when I got it last year? I was puking, sneezing, coughing and shitting all at the same time—totally sucked balls—big time.”
Dale cringes. “Never put ‘suck balls’ and puking or shitting in the same sentence. Ever!”
“Sorry, man I won’t. Ever.”
There’s a knock on my open office door.
Dale and I look up from our work (okay we weren’t really working) as Janie from Legal waddles into my office.
“Alexia, Dale, sorry to interrupt your meeting.”
I shut my laptop and lean back in my chair. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“How was your vacation?”
“Good.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Good? You spend three weeks at a villa in southern France and it was good? Come on.”
“Sorry. It is what it is.”
“Oh pleeease. Three weeks vacationing at a French villa, lounging in the French sun, eating French food and drinking French wine. And what about the French men?” She raises her brows three times.
I fold my arms over my chest—one of my “I’m not going there” moves.
Janie huffs, and taps her foot.
I groan. ”You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No. So you might as well spill it.
“You should work for the National Inquirer.”
She gives me a triumphant grin. Apparently, she thinks that’s a compliment.
“Okay.” I say and raise my arms in defeat. “The French villa––fucking ancient. French sun—hotter than watching a naked Ryan Gosling bake cookies in August.” I pause, savoring that visual for few seconds. Yeah, that’s hot.
“Where was I?”
“Food” Janie says, while gesturing—go on, go on.
“Okay, okay. French food.”
Janie pouts and I continue.
“French food—fucking fantastic. The chef Gram hired for our stay—incredibly talented. And it was obvious that he enjoys his own cooking. The man was…fat. The fattest man I’d ever met.”
“It’s not politically correct to say fat.” Janie adds.
“Do I look like I’m politically correct in any way?”
“What do politically correct people look like?” Dales asks.
“I have no freakin’ idea. You two drive me crazy. Do you want me to finish, or can we just skip this inquest and go back to work?”
“No!” They answer simultaneously.
I sigh loudly. Do you hear it? “Okay, the French wine was like having—synchronized multiple orgasms igniting on the tip of your tongue, then exploding in the back of your throat.
“Wow!” Dale says. “I’m for sure stopping by the wine store on my way home.”
“What about the men?” Janie whines.
“French men—let’s just say mature.”
“Mature?” She huffs.
“Yeah, AARP mature.” I scoot my chair back and plop my feet up on
my desk.
She raises a brow. “You’re so lying.”
I roll my eyes. I do this a lot—got the idea from Dale. “Do I need to recap our pre-vacation conversations?”
She pouts. ”No. Okay, maybe?”
“Recap.” Dale mocks, never looking up from his laptop.
I flip him off.
“I saw that.” He mutters.
So you don’t like my recaps buddy, well too freakin’ bad! I give him the evil eye before my recap. “My eccentric and possibly psychotic grandmother has a villa in Southern France. She asked that her belle petite-fille join her and her mature friends. I begged off numerous times, but Gram is very persistent.”
“What’s belle pe…whatever you said?” Dale asks.
“Oh sorry my linguistatardic friend, it means ‘beautiful granddaughter.’”
“I knew that,” Janie adds.
I lift a brow. “Really?”
“You so didn’t.” Dale smirks.
“Okay I didn’t.” She pouts. “And FYI girlfriend, tard isn’t politically correct.”
“Well, FYI girlfriend—eat me.”
“It’s true though. I am a linguistatard. Lex has been trying to teach me Spanish for two years. And the only thing I can come up with is—‘sí jefe’.”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I thought you were feeding me bullshit. You really did go with your psycho grandmother and her AARP friends?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“That’s just fucking sad.” She pouts.
I chuckle. “You haven’t meet Gram’s friends. When I said mature, I wasn’t referring to age. They’re batshit crazy. They party like the Rolling Stones, drink like the Irish before Lent, and…they...well, you know...they fuck like rabbits.”
Dale closes his laptop, and leans forward.
Typical male. Say fuck and rabbits and they tune in. Well, okay just say fuck and they tune in.
I continue. “Remember ancient, and hot? There’s no air-conditioning in a one hundred and fifty year-old villa. Every night I would sit out on my balcony for a little heat relief, and every night it was like watching Gram and her mature friends in a Viagra infomercial on a continuous loop. Over and over and over.” I gesture this by rolling my hands—just because I can. “I would have killed for a remote control so I could change the channel, turn it off or at the very least, mute it.”
“Oh. My. God,” Janie says and plants her fat—seven-month pregnant ass on my desk.
“Yeah, Oh. My. God.” I articulate each word—so they totally get that I was freakin’—freaked out. “Two seventy-year olds fucking in a pool on an inflatable island is something you never want to see—or hear. Ever.”
Janie wrinkles her nose. “Yuck! The thought of my grandmother fucking in a pool––Oh God, or anywhere makes me want to…” She sticks her finger down her throat and mock gags.
“And that, folks, is why there shouldn’t be any geriatric porn.” Dale adds.
He groans and rubs his temples. “Oh my God, now I can’t get it out of my head.” He closes his eyes and narrates the scene that’s plaguing his psyche.
A set of dentures soaking in a glass that sits on a bedside table. A mature man lounges in a wheelchair, sporting a Viagra– induced stiffy. Then, with the aid of her walker a mature woman kneels in front of the man. The man leans his head back and closes his eyes. “Hell yeah woman… gum it! Yeah baby, just like that! Gum it!”
He opens his eyes. “My new career,” he touts, “Geriatric Porn Writer.”
I think for a minute. “Hey, you might be on to something. Isn’t like seventy percent of the US population mature?”
Dale shrugs, then gives me a where are you going with this look?
“You could make it into some kind of reality show.”
“Yeah, right. Who would watch crap like that?”
“Oh come on dude. Isn’t that what reality shows are all about—crap? What’s that one—Honey’s got a boo–boo? Oh, and the one my friend, Jules watches all the time—Talk To Your Dress, or The Dress Talks—who the hell knows? Who the hell cares?”
I bite my lip—I do this when I’m trying to think or I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. So yeah, my lip has permanent teeth tracks. “Let’s see, the Amish one—Amish CSI, or is it Amish SVU, I haven’t a clue.
There’s one other Jules talks about all the time—The Kardoucheians?
Janie rolls her eyes at me.
“What?”
“That’s not what it’s called,” she whines.
“Who gives a shit?”
“I do! I love that show,” she shout-pouts.
“Well, I say a Kardoucheian free world—is a better world.” I huff.
Janie stomps her foot. “You are so not with it, girlfriend. I mean you’re gorgeous and all that, and you dress great, but you’re a…well, you’re a nerd.”
“Well thanks Janie, I happen to think nerds are like way sick. The good sick, not bad, in case you were wondering. I don’t know about the gorgeous thing, but the dress…great thing. Yeah, I know I’m stylin’ chica, because my friends dress me. They don’t literally come over and dress me. They shop for me—for my clothes and stuff. My point is that you can’t make a reality show that people won’t watch. So why not, Dale Adams Geriatric Porn Writer Dynasty.”
“Yeah. I can see it.” Dale says. “After about a year there will be all–day marathons. Not to mention all the additional marketing crap. T-shirts, mugs, key chains, beer—the list is endless. I think you might be on to something, Lex.”
“Well that’s one show I’ll be missing.” Janie huffs.
“Yeah right,” Dale replies.
Janie farts, then slides off my desk and rubs her tummy. “Crap. Sorry about that—pregnant and all.”
Dale and I wrinkle our noses. “Don’t worry about it,” I say while holding my breath. Yeah, come fart on my desk anytime you want, girlfriend. FYI—pregnant farts are nasty. Avoid at all costs.
“I’d better get my big, baby-assed self back to work before someone comes looking for me.”
She waddles toward the door then stops. She turns and hits her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’m such a raging hormonal idiot. I almost forgot the reason I came down here.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and hands me a Post-it-Note. “From your biggest pain in your ass. Sorry, she huffs.”
I recite from the note.
Your vacation is over!
Sims audit on my desk by Thursday!
Stop screwing around, and do your job!
Get it done, or I’ll report you to Ryan!
“What a pissant,” Dale comments. “He makes it sound like we’ve been sitting on our asses and twiddling our thumbs while you were gone.”
“Don’t worry about Frank,” I utter.
“I’m not worried about him. I just can’t stand the man. He’s such a fucking dork.”
“Yeah, I agree he’s no legal prodigy. He thinks a legal pad is a place where attorneys hang out, and legal briefs are the tighty whities that crawl up his crack.”
Dale laughs.
Janie gives him a playful slug in the arm. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you had to work with the assbag. It amazes me that a guy who can barely tie his shoes could pass the bar.” She huffs. “And you.” She points a finger at me. “When my ass is bigger than a house, I won’t be delivering Post–it–Notes, so start answering his stupid e-mails.”
I pout. “All right, all right.” I glide my feet off my desk and onto the floor, and then rummage through my desk until I find my Post Its. I write, and then recite my response.
Frankie,
Feed your dick through the shredder!
Then shove your balls up your ass!
Oh wait—you don’t have any!
Sims audit by Friday!
Or whenever it gets done!
Comprendes?
Janie grins as I hand over the note.
“Tell the asslick I’ll answer his e-mails, but no more th
an three a day. I can’t handle more than that.”
“I’ll tell him, but I can’t guarantee he will comprende.” Janie puts the note in her pocket. “Well, you two, it’s been real.” She waves as she waddles out of my office.
I flip open my laptop and exhale. “Okay, let’s fix this freakin’ ass Sims audit.
Dale opens his computer and we get to work.
SECURITY ESCORT
Two hours later my jet lag sets in. I yawn.
“Tired?” Dale asks.
“Yeah, jet laggin’.”
He shuts down his laptop. “I’ll run and get us a Red Bull and a triple espresso.”
There are four things in my life that I rarely pass up. A good hard run, good Scotch whiskey (Gram says there’s no such thing as bad Scotch whiskey), coffee of any kind and, well…you know? If you don’t know…well what can I say?
“I’ll skip the Bull.”
He smirks. “No Bull?”
I shake my head. “No Bull.”
“Are you positive. No Bull?” He grins.
“Enough with the Bull-shit.” I moan.
“Okay, no Bull.” He pouts and walks to the door. As he takes his first step past the threshold he smacks headfirst into—The Wall.
The Wall, aka Mountain Man, aka Security Pete, is a bear of a man. Standing at six-five and weighing two-ninety—or about—he’s a one-man security team. A sweet guy but someone you don’t what to mess with.
“Fuck!” Dale puffs, while rubbing his head.
“Sorry Dale didn’t see you down there.” Pete mocks.
“Well, maybe you need to look down here,” Dale cries.
Pete smirks. “Yeah, sure thing Dale.”
Dale continues to rub his noggin as he shuffles back into my office.
Pete walks in behind him still sporting his smirk.
I flip my laptop shut. “Hey Pete.”
“Alexia.”
“What’s up?”
He exhales. “I’m here…well I’m here on official security business. I’ve been asked to escort you to the CEO floor.”
Layers Page 1
