by J. P. Hansen
Entering the elevator, she felt a whisk of relief as she slinked inside without incident. It was empty and she rested on the wall while pressing the button for the top floor. She laughed, thinking she didn’t even know which office was his—or if it was on the top floor. Hey, maybe he’s not the guy who has to play king of the hill at the top of the corporate kingdom. She doubted it—he wasn’t the communal, cubicle type.
The elevator bumped to a stop and the door slid open. She stood for an awkward moment, then lunged forward, feeling lost. This floor didn’t resemble hers—it was much nicer. Pharmical had its own C-floor—so unlike GenSense. Like walking into a Hyatt from a Holiday Inn. Her face scrunched into a sour expression.
Brooke strode to the double glass door and nearly rammed right into it. The door failed to open like every other door in the building. She spotted a mini box that required a card. She cupped her hands and peered inside through the darkened glass. Brooke spotted a receptionist several feet away, engrossed in her monitor. Brooke waved. Nothing. She knocked. Nothing. Growing impatient, Brooke knocked harder. Still nothing. Finally, she noticed Miss Screensaver broke her trance and glared her way. A buzzer sounded and the door whisked open.
Brooke shook her head while stepping inside. She felt like she was on the set of Star Trek. She half expected to see guys with pointed ears running around. She laughed as she visualized dukies at a basketball game, bouncing up and down in their courtside seats—with Spock ears and their little Blue Devil shirts.
Brooke plodded toward the desk of the C-floor gatekeeper. Nope, her ears were normal. “Hi, I’m Brooke Hart. I’m here to see Chase Allman.”
“Where’s your tag?”
“I work here.”
“Where’s your tag?”
Brooke frowned, “I don’t have one.”
“And you work here?”
“Yes, I’m new…vice president of Integrated Client Services.”
“I’ll phone Mr. Allman’s administrative assistant.”
“Thank you.” Brooke sighed.
After speaking into her headset, the gatekeeper glared at Brooke and said, “Ruth—Mr. Allman’s assistant is on her way. You really need to carry a pass for security purposes.” Not, I’ll get you a card of your own. So much for southern hospitality on the C-floor.
Brooke spotted Ruth and was mildly surprised she could travel without a corn broom. She guessed Ruth was in her late forties, with a weathered face but a nice figure. Brooke was puzzled by Ruth’s jealousy. Ruth scurried right in front of her and in a voice much too loud for the short distance, said, “Well, I can see you’re walking just fine. I guess the injury wasn’t so bad after all.”
Brooke forced a smile, “It’s still a little sore, but I’m much better, thanks.” Brooke thought, sheesh, how about hello…or, would you care for some iced tea? Was Ruth this pathetic? What’s Chase doing with a witch like her?
“Chase is still on an important call. It should end soon. Follow me.”
Brooke struggled to keep up, and hoped to slow her by asking, “How long have you worked here?”
Ruth peered over her shoulder, turned her chin upward, “I’ve been with Chase for six years now.” Ruth’s tone rubbed Brooke the wrong way, almost sounding possessive. Is she attracted to him?
“Well, I’m sure you’re good at what you do then.” No response. Even to a compliment. Brooke tried hard to connect with this woman, but she seemed more distant than the North Pole—and twice as cold. Shane’s psychological profile tabbed Brooke as having “predominant interpersonal skills.” Or, in plain speak, a people person. But, Brooke wondered how Shane would characterize Ruth—probably suffering from interpersonal setback.
Brooke shifted gears, and asked, “How long have y’all been in this building?” Brooke didn’t mind that she let another y’all slip—aloof to the impression it left with Broom-Hilda.
“As long as I’ve been with Pharmical. I moved to the top floor with Chase three years ago. I can still remember the day we were promoted to CEO.”
We? Okay, I give up. This woman’s got some Chase issues, Brooke thought. Ruth could outdo Kathy Bates’s character if they ever filmed a remake of “Misery.” Brooke followed without uttering a word. Ruth bee-lined to the corner of the floor and asked Brooke to take a seat in yet another boardroom, adjacent to what she guessed was Chase’s office. Settling in to the expensive-looking leather chair, Brooke heard Chase’s voice. She guessed he was on the phone. Even muffled, he still delivered a manly radio announcer’s voice. She blushed, then repeated to herself married, married, married.
After what sounded like a phone slamming, Chase’s door flew open. Brooke thought she heard Ruth say, “Miss Hart is in the conference room.”
“Hi there.”
Once again, with back turned, Brooke missed another dramatic entrance. She spun the chair and he stood right in front of her like a Greek god. He reached out his hand. Brooke lost control of the chair and it spun, inches away from hitting him where it counts. Red faced, she struggled to gain her balance—and keep her legs together. “Hello again.” He eyed her carefully.
Still seated, Brooke grabbed his hand—firm, yet not overbearing, matching his grip. She hated people who gripped too tightly or offered the limp hand. Or, people who held on too long—but she didn’t want to let go.
With a look of genuine concern, he gazed deep into her eyes and asked, “How’s the ankle doing?”
Brooke felt a hot flash. She thought, if I were a teenager, I’d scream. And, if I didn’t fall off the chair on my own, his eyes alone could knock me to the ground—I had forgotten those lashes. She inhaled his fragrance and felt tingly. Brooke managed, “It doesn’t bother me much. I’ve been staying off of it.”
“It doesn’t look like you’re staying off it now. I’m sorry—I should have met with you in your office. That was inconsiderate of me.”
“It’s no problem. It’s not like you made me run up the stairs. I took the elevator—and didn’t even fall...”
He laughed, then grabbed her briefcase, handling the overstuffed bag with ease. He offered his upturned hand, and said, “Let me help you into my office.” She almost said, I’m fine on my own, but the urge to touch him again overwhelmed her. Then, as his hand met hers again, a buzz flowed through her. She thought, if I melt anymore, I could just flow into his office like a stream. She stood up and he grasped her shoulder the same way as before. They shuffled a few steps, until just past the door. Brooke saw Ruth and could almost smell her stink eye. Chase was oblivious, focused on Brooke and her sweet fragrance.
Brooke glanced away but could feel a burn from Ruth’s searing eyes as she strolled with Chase. Passing through the door, her eyes widened. In addition to an impressive view from two window walls, it looked presidential. Mahogany plaques and picture frames matched his oversized desk. On a table, a picture of him arm-in-arm with George W. Bush, flanked by two other guys she didn’t recognize. They were each holding putters in their white gloved hands. Just as she tabbed him a right winger, she surveyed the adjacent picture—Chase and Bill Clinton, again arm-in-arm. Brooke caught Chase viewing her out of the corner of her eye, and said, “Impressive company you keep.”
“That’s no big deal.” Brooke faced Chase, who smirked and said, “This is the one I’m most proud of…”
Chase lifted a picture from the front of his desk: Duke Basketball Coach Mike Krzyzewski shaking Chase’s hand. Brooke said, “I hope you washed your hand after that one.” Above his autograph, Coach K scribbled, “Dear Chase, Thanks For Your Support.”
Brooke hated to admit she was impressed, so she said, “Oh God, I better sit down before I get sick…” They both laughed.
Brooke followed her own cue and while easing onto one of the two chairs in front of his desk, she asked, “Where’s the one with you and Michael Jordan? Or Dean Smith?”
“In the dumpster.” They laughed again, his noticeably louder.
Brooke surveyed all of his artwork…a D
uke University painting, a blown up shot of an aircraft with Chase and a small boy—a son? Another Duke Basketball picture, and a plaque:
People have to be given the freedom to show the heart they possess. I think it’s a leader’s responsibility to provide that type of freedom. And I believe it can be done through relationships and family. Because if a team is a real family, its members want to show you their hearts.
Coach Mike Krzyzewski
Interesting, she thought, no picture of a wife? Just before she could ask about the photo on the wall with the small boy, Chase said, “Brooke, I wanted to call you here to see how Integrated Client Services is doing?”
She reached down and searched for the stuffed folders as if picking a card from a deck crammed inside her briefcase. She spotted it and nearly broke two nails pulling it out. Placing it on her knees, she opened it, and said, “Well, so far, we’re on budget.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s a bit of a misnomer though. I have twelve openings in my division, so my P&L is skewed.”
“Why so many openings?”
“I guess they all thought I was Attila the Hun.” She laughed, but noticed Chase’s furrowed brows. Brooke gulped, then continued, “I’ll shoot to you straight—I tend to be brutally honest rather than politically correct.” Chase nodded while he watched her lips move as she spoke. Brooke inhaled, then said, “HR hasn’t been as helpful as I would have liked.” Brooke felt relieved for stopping short of saying dragged their feet or useless—or worse. Maybe I can be PC, she thought.
“We need to secure the right team to deliver the number this year. What does David Greenberg say?”
Brooke pictured the absentee android and nearly blurted, can you introduce me to him? “I haven’t bothered him with this. He seems like he has a lot on his plate right now. His HR department works at a snail’s pace and the few people they’ve sent me have all been duds. I’ve had more luck on my own.”
“Well, if you’re not getting the support you need, you’ve gotta get in Greenberg’s face. I’ll back you to the hilt.”
“Thank you sir,” she bit her lip, then, “but I’d rather you didn’t say anything. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a tattle tale—running to the CEO. I don’t want to scare any more people away.” In truth, she wanted to nuke the entire division and start fresh. The people who bolted were the marketable ones; the employees who remained needed a perpetual cry towel dispenser. Such a difference from before—nobody ever left GenSense.
“How’s our fill rate?”
Brooke marveled at Chase’s understanding of her world, a microcosm of the greater whole he oversaw. She thought, no wonder he’s CEO—he has a nice grasp of all elements of Pharmical. The ability to grasp the macro, yet understand all the micros. Plus, she loved his enthusiasm—and his chiseled features. That face belonged on a magazine cover.
“My department’s customer fill rate’s in the eighties.” Chase frowned. Brooke said, “It’s not where I’d like it, but without a full staff, I feel like a Band-Aid on an amputated leg.” Chase grinned for the first time in awhile, sending a wave through Brooke. Though even handsome with pursed lips, when he flashed his smile, she melted.
Similarly, Chase enjoyed Brooke’s spirit. Her lips mesmerized him as they formed each word. In addition to brains and wit, she had unmistakable beauty. Heather had pretty features, but Brooke’s beauty stemmed from within. She was the total package. Examining her bio earlier, he wondered why she was single. Was she ever married? Did she have any kids of her own? He realized he couldn’t go there, but craved more information. Imagining her in college, she would’ve been scooped up in two seconds at a Duke party.
“Where would it be if you were at full capacity?”
“In the high nineties. Focusing solely on Stabilitas, there’s no reason our numbers dropped to the low eighties.”
Stabilitas? The word shattered Chase’s dreamy gaze. His eyes burst as a wave of paranoia mushroomed inside like a nuclear implosion. Did she find out? How could she know? She couldn’t know. He drew a deep breath, and realized his anxiety still lingered since the earlier call. His voice of reason resonated—she couldn’t have heard anything. My door was closed the whole time. I’ve got to settle down.
Brooke sensed Chase’s unease; he’d lost that sparkle in his eye. I’m losing him with this minutia. “Am I boring you with these numbers?” I hope I’m not leaning too far forward.
“Not at all, Brooke, I love numbers.” He slightly furrowed his brows. Brooke had always been perceptive with body language—especially obvious signs like crossing one’s arms in the middle of a negotiation or glancing at one’s watch. Chase’s change was more subtle, but detectable. She hankered for a peek in her compact without him noticing.
“I brought a whole stack of numbers, but I’m still trying to learn ‘em all. What would you like to discuss next?”
“There’s no need to continue beating a dead horse, Brooke. I have all the confidence in the world that you’ll have ICS running smoothly soon. You’ll fill your openings, just be patient.” He peered at her hands, and she folded her left hand on top of her right.
Chase switched gears and asked, “Did Dixon take good care of you?”
“The ankle’s fine—the MRI was negative. And it feels much better. After having said that, can I be honest?”
“Please…”
“After what he said to me, I’d rather amputate my leg than see him again.”
Chase grimaced, wondering how Dixon crossed the line this time. He knew from experience how off the wall he could be. Chase made a mental note to have it out with Dixie-dawg. He decided to avoid discussing him with Brooke, but his scowl spoke volumes.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
Yeah, tell me about your wife? Why don’t you have her picture up? Is that your son next to you? Why are you friends with a creep? Who did you vote for? Why do they call you ‘Boa’? Did you get your own coffee this morning? Boxers or briefs?
Instead, “What is happening with GenSense?”
“What do you mean?”
“An old client called and said he couldn’t re-order any of our products.”
“Listen, GenSense was a strategic acquisition that the Board believed would fit well with our five-year strat plan. Pharmical was intrigued by gene therapy, but it’s new for us—and we still see it as futuristic. I’m pushing for a division dedicated to genetic treatment, but for now, I’m afraid GenSense is on hold.”
Futuristic? Brooke’s brows scrunched. “On hold? Millions of people die from leukemia each year. GenSense provided hope for so many people—real hope. We had an incredible remission rate. I was expecting Pharmical to obtain FDA approval by now.”
“Don’t get me started with the FDA. It’s a wonder anyone can stay in business with those clowns.”
“We already had enough research data from Canada and Mexico. Our little company secured the green light from the FDA for a test market. Why isn’t Pharmical pushing for a rollout?” Brooke felt her jaw tighten.
“Like I said, we’re going to walk before we run. I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics, but M&A is actively pursuing other companies to buy and integrate.”
Brooke’s stomach churned. Her divine calling had been trampled, now sitting in corporate purgatory, waiting to be integrated. Everything she fought for and believed in was now tossed in a company closet. She realized if GenSense existed five years ago, Tanner would still be alive—by her side—rather than a memory lingering like a haunting shadow. She’d return everything…all the money…if only GenSense’s revolutionary treatment could reach the dying masses in time. Brooke’s face turned ashen; with white lips, she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Allman, but I think I’m going to be sick…”
He started saying, “I’ll do my best to try to salvage GenSense—” but Brooke had already lunged toward the door. Asking, “What’s wrong?” Brooke advanced beyond his door. Stunned, he remained silent as he watched her. He wond
ered why she looked so distressed, but marveled at her faultless figure.
Did I make her sick? Recalling his answers, he didn’t think so. Her reactions seemed peculiar, like an obsession. She definitely cared about GenSense—and he loved her passion, but didn’t realize her rationale. Women.
Admiring Brooke’s final steps before the elevator, Chase noticed Ruth wasn’t at her desk. He slid his bottom drawer open and removed the picture. He glanced up once more, hoping Ruth wouldn’t just pop in. Coast clear. He spun in his chair and slid the Coach K photo over to the side and set the framed picture in its spot. He breathed a sigh of relief, but while glancing at Heather, he felt a thud. That same face could light him up in the not-so-distant past; now, she looked like a ghost. What a waste. Chase’s hackles rose, causing him to spin back around. He hiccupped in surprise. “Hi Ruth, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry. Are you finished with your meeting with Miss Hart?”
“Yes, did you need me for something?”
“I was just going to put your messages in your in tray.”
“I’ll take ‘em, thanks.” He reached out and grabbed the sizable stack of papers—so much for the electronic age. The small pink reminder slip flashed at his eye like a neon Vegas casino sign: “Call Max Molini. He says it’s important.”
With panther speed, Chase closed his door, then lifted the receiver. On the first ring, “What the fuck took you so long?”
Huh?
To a guy accustomed to people kissing up to him, there were few who could get away with this greeting—especially in his office—but Max Molini was one of them. Chase didn’t hire him for his social graces. “Sorry, I was in a meeting.”
“A meetin’? Man, I wish I could just jack around in a meetin’. Well, one of us has to work.”
“You left a message…You said it was important?”
