Next Door Boss

by Luke Steel

  “So I’d have a friend on the inside to feed me tidbits and put eyes on Gabriel. The whole point is so I have an in at the company.”

  I pull up a little short on that one. Funny, I thought the point was to help me, her friend, get a job. Looking across the high-top at Sheryl, I remember now how adamant she was when she first told me about Mangovan Companies, how the job would be such a great opportunity for me. For me. She wasn’t wrong. But how naïve that I didn’t see what she was really after. This is Sheryl’s M.O. Has been since we were kids. I was always the most convenient cover for her nefarious plans.

  “I didn’t realize you wanted me to spy.”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s not spying. I’m not asking for stock tips. I’m a journalist.”

  I nod and sip my drink. Semantics.

  Sheryl and I have known each other since we were teenagers. I tell people we both volunteered when we met at the animal shelter, but it’s a convenient fiction to cover the truth. I was volunteering. Sheryl was there for community service: when she was fourteen, Sheryl got caught shoplifting. Working at the shelter was part of her probation.

  Sheryl was your typical, bored teenager, rebelling against her rich parents. Our friendship was completely unlikely—I was a nerdy, straight A student, while Sheryl was popular, intelligent and calculated, but didn’t have to work very hard for anything. She was the kind of friend my parents knew about and tolerated, but always watched very carefully. I was the good girl. She was the troubled bad girl, though nothing was ever so serious her parents’ money couldn’t fix it. But she’s also an excellent writer, which is how she became a columnist. A little ruthless, but I get the impression that’s what you have to be in her profession. Seems like a perfect fit.

  Truthfully, I like Sheryl, though there are times I find her to be a bit shallow. But I tell myself that’s probably because she’s just a bit spoiled from her parents’ money. In school, she would sometimes be very friendly, other times completely ignore me, as though we didn’t know each other at all. The typical kind of stuff separated us: clothes, awkward teenage social strata. I always got the feeling that Sheryl didn’t make close ties. But if there was no one else and she was bored, or if she needed a solid alibi for when she snuck off with a boyfriend or other friends, she could always count on me for reliable cover.

  As I study my drink, I feel a little guilty, and Gabriel’s words come back to haunt me, too. I don’t want to judge her, or talk badly of her, even if only to myself. My feelings are two-faced–childish. I remind myself I wouldn’t have my job or even my apartment if it wasn’t for her help. These mixed feelings about her aren’t fair, especially considering everything she’s done for me.

  We drifted after high school and went to separate colleges and grad schools. I was surprised when she contacted me out of the blue and told me about the position at Mangovan. I was even more surprised when she wrapped the opportunity up in a perfect bow, letting me stay at her apartment in a building I could not otherwise afford for a very reduced rent. It’s the tippy top of what I can afford even now, but still reduced for what and where it is, and I didn’t know a soul in the city when I first came here. As roommates go, she’s a dream: she’s never even there, always travelling for work or jetting off on glamourous getaways.

  I need to remember if it hadn’t been for Sheryl, I probably wouldn’t have gotten my job. And I wouldn’t have my apartment. And I wouldn’t have met Gabriel. Mixed blessings, all of it, but I wouldn’t take it back.

  I set aside my hurt feelings. I owe her. A lot.

  Sheryl narrows her eyes at me. “You get this funny look on your face when we talk about him, by the way.”

  “I do?” My voice sounds funny, even to me. I look away and try to rein myself in a bit. I have an uneasy feeling, but I can’t explain why.

  She’s got her reporter face on right now, examining me. “He’s a really hot guy, even if he is an asshole. Tell me, have you been taken in by the Mangovan charm?”

  I try to put her off. I haven’t told her how I first met Gabriel, and now I really don’t want to. She seems to have this weird, one-sided history with him. I don’t think she realizes how odd her behavior sounds. A little stalker-ish, to be honest.

  “He is very handsome,” I allow, “but our relationship is completely professional.”

  “Your ‘relationship’? Interesting word.” She’s teasing, sort of. The look in her eyes is aggressive and a little fixed. A voice is whispering to me that she almost seems jealous, but I’m trying to quiet it down. Sheryl’s my friend.

  “Working relationship. Nothing more.”

  “Oh bullshit,” she slaps the table between us, and the sound is a little too loud. People around us seem to stare. Sheryl recovers fast, pasting a smile on. “You can tell me. Have you two gotten close at all?”

  “Sheryl, stop, ok? He’s my boss. I don’t want to talk about this.”

  The bartender heard the loud thunk, and seemed to think it was his cue to come over to our table.

  “Shots!” Sheryl declares, and gestures to the bartender. She turns to me. “I haven’t seen you forever. Let’s have some fun.”

  I’m grateful that the very weird moment between us has passed, but I’m not sure about strong drinks for me. It’s been a day. “Oh, Sheryl, I don’t know. I have work tomorrow.”

  “Don’t say no. What good is fucking your boss if you can’t come to work hungover?”

  “Shh!” I hiss, immediately regretting I told her anything. My big, dumb, stupid mouth strikes again. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t straight out tell her—I’m mortified that she guessed.

  Sheryl grins and orders tequila.

  She sees my worried expression. “Would you relax? You’re not at work right now.”

  She’s right. After the weeks I’ve had and my confusion about today, it won’t hurt to let go a little.

  7

  Gabriel

  Demi isn’t in her office when I go peeking around corners on her floor. I called her immediately when I got out of a later conference call, but no answer, and now her office is empty. I’m surprised until I look at my watch and realize it’s almost nine-thirty. Demi’s proven to be stalwart for her work, but even the most dedicated employees don’t stay this late on the regular. After we achieved détente this afternoon, I suppose it’s not strange she left for the day without saying good night.

  Well, actually, it kind of sucks, but…

  I’m not angry at her anymore, not trying to pester her anymore, but old habits are going to die hard: I realize I’ve come to like being able to reach her anytime I want. I was taking the act a little far—even Mangovan the Monster knows employees have lives. But now that the great thaw is settling between us, all the questions and little personal mysteries I’ve been pushing out of mind are surfacing. I want to know more about her. I know her résumé, her education. I know she loves her cat.

  A framed photo on her desk is the only personal item in here. I haven’t exactly been encouraging her to settle in, so I’m guessing that the older couple in the photo (parents? grandparents?) are important to her. Comforting. I wonder if the house in the background is where she grew up. I wonder…

  On the drive back to my place, I break down once and dial her number, but when there’s no answer have to fight to keep from dialing again. Past the lobby, I briefly consider the entrance to the main part of the tower. Maybe if I knocked on the door, she’ll be home. But maybe what happened earlier is enough for one day. My dick is lodging formal protest in my pants, true enough, but I put her through hell these last few weeks, I know it.

  And fucking hell, I’m never this way about women. I don’t second-guess, I never need to hold myself back from anyone. Women are either colleagues or playthings, with little space in between. In any case, they’re always handy. More times than not I’m pushing them away. But Demi…after everything, I want her to begin to come around to enjoying my company. Maybe the best thing I can do is give her one night of
space.

  The knock at the door wakes me. My first thought is Demi. There’s no bell, and no one called up from the front desk. She’s in the building. It could only be her.

  When I open the door, though, there’s no one in the foyer. It’s completely empty.

  Meow

  I look down. Ray is sitting in front of the door, staring up at me.

  “Magic Man is back. How did you get up here?” I stop just short of reaching for him and, instead, I hold out my arms like Demi did. Sure enough, Ray jumps up into them. He bumps his whisker face into mine, then settles down on my arm and begins to purr like a motorboat.

  “Hey little psycho. Where’s your mom?”

  The cat didn’t knock, I know that much. I look around and I spot a note taped to the door.

  I’m waiting for you. You know where to find me.

  Well, hello.

  My elevator is a straight shot to the ground floor only. But I’m thinking if the orange David Copperfield in my arms used the service stairs, it’s time to see this trick for myself. The service stairs are tucked discretely behind a pillar in the hall.

  As I walk with Ray in my arms, I stop and examine the door. I’m not sorry I met Demi, but the service stairwell to my penthouse is not supposed to be open to any of the other floors except for emergencies—a key card on the floor landing usually bars entry. The card reader doesn’t look tampered with. But when I look at the door more closely, I can see that that jam has been filled up with some kind of rubber cement. When the door closes, the tongue can’t click closed.

  Ray didn’t do this either. And there’s no way this isn’t deliberate. Someone rigged the door to keep it from locking.

  I descend to Demi’s floor and stop at the interim floors between hers and mine. All the others lock. But when I get to the sixteenth, the door’s been given the same rubber adhesive treatment.

  The mystery of how Ray found his way up the service stairs directly to my floor is now solved, but that just bothers me more. Someone jimmied the door.

  Why would she do that?

  I’m not stupid and this doesn’t strike me as a coincidence. The only person I can think of who would have anything to gain by our meeting is Demi.

  The door to apartment 16C, Demi’s unit, is open. There are zero lights on, and the curtains must be drawn because it is pitch black inside. I know the general layout of this unit because I built the damn building, but this is still a little silly. I’m all for seduction, but give a guy a candle or something to see where he’s going.

  My gut is sending me some warning signs. And it’s not just because Ray is suddenly emitting some warning growls in my arms as we move down the dark hall. I set the kitty down and he runs off in the opposite direction I’m headed, back toward the front room.

  Further down the darkened hall, I’m a little exasperated. “Demi? Um, I’m a little lost here. Help me out?”

  “This way!” I jerk to the left. Sound is coming from what I know is the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

  I can feel rather than see the space open up as I walk through a final door.

  “Are you ready for me, baby?” The voice is a whisper, but something about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Not in a good way.

  “Demi?”

  “I’m ready for you.”

  Every single light in the apartment is off, it seems. No help from the window here either—there’s no moon in the sky.

  I pass my hand along the wall and my watch bumps the door frame.

  “Leave the light off. It’s hot this way.”

  This is wrong. I don’t know why, but this feels off. I fumble for the panel and hit a random switch.

  Low track lights come up in the room and the woman on the bed is NOT Demi.

  “You’re that reporter.”

  “‘That reporter,’” the woman on the bed repeats, and her thick red lips spread wide in a television smile. “Seriously?”

  I back up all the way to the hall. This is fucked up. Demi’s not anywhere I can see. What’s more, I think the woman on the bed is naked under a thin sheet.

  “I admit, I imagined this a little differently,” the woman says through her smile. “But we’re here now. Why don’t you come on over and be my welcome home party?”

  “Excuse me, but what the hell is going on? Where’s Demi?”

  The woman shakes her head. “Excuse me, but this is my apartment. I live here.” She’s making her voice high and innocent, but the look on her face says differently. Everything about her reads smug, dangerous. And the longer I stand here, the more fun she’s having at my expense.

  “Ok, lady, play it that way. I’m out of here.”

  “Wait!” She jerks up to a sitting position, holds out her hand to me. “Why are you leaving? She said you’d be into this.”

  “She?” That stops me cold. “You have exactly three seconds to explain what the hell is going on.”

  The woman shrugs. “Demi. She said you were upset about the article for weeks so she slept with you so you’d be nicer to her. When that didn’t work, she said I should fuck you and then you’d let her keep her job.” The woman licks her lips. “I said no problem. I didn’t realize my little article would cause so much trouble. This is the least I can do.”

  Holy shit.

  The light from the bedroom is spilling out into the hall and part of the living room. I hear the woman wrestling with the sheet behind me, but I quickly head for the front door of the apartment. That’s when I see a shadow move near the couch. I can’t see all the way in the dark, but I recognize the silhouette. It’s the tumble of curly hair. Demi is sitting up on the sofa, and I stop in my tracks.

  “Gabriel?” she says my name. She sounds sleepy, groggy.

  I feel a tug on my arm, and then the woman from the bedroom sidles up next to me, buck ass naked. She turns to Demi.

  “I thought you told him.”

  No help there. Demi’s got a hand pressed to her head and she’s blinking. “Wait. Sheryl, what’s happening?”

  Sheryl crosses her arms over her breasts and glares at Demi. “I thought you said he knew everything.” Sheryl turns to me and counts off her fingers. “Demi found out about my article, that I was going to interview you. She begged me to introduce her to people in your HR department and refer her for that management job. She begged me to let her live here. When I came home she told me all about how upset you were about the article and she begged me to help get you off her back. I’m just trying to help.”

  Instinct is telling me something about Sheryl’s story is off, but other pieces of the puzzle are falling into place. Demi working at my company and also living in the same building as me when there’s no way she could afford it, even on her new salary. Demi just happening to find her way into my apartment the very same day her roommate’s hit piece makes the paper. Demi doing anything and everything to stay on at Mangovan, even when I was making her life hell. Who would do that without some kind of agenda?

  No one. Ever. That’s just the way life works.

  Sheryl reaches out to me. “Hey, it’s fine. We could just have a good time. I just want to help.” Her tone is saccharine, oozing. She’s still naked and the whole thing is absurd.

  I toss her hand off my arm. “Pair of you are psycho, both of you.” Sheryl draws back, angry, and turns to Demi. We both do.

  “Is it true, Demi? About the job? And this is her apartment?”

  Demi’s face crumbles. “Yes, but it wasn’t like she said. I—“

  I cut her off. “And you knew she was the one who wrote that fucking article about me? She’s your goddamn roommate? This whole time?”

  “Gabriel, listen, I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s not like how you’re making it sound.”

  “Right. Sure it isn’t. Un-fucking-believable. No!” Demi draws up short when I bark the last word at her, my voice cracking. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

  I finally make it to the door and break for the
stairs. Not up. Down. All sixteen fucking stories. I’m getting the hell away from the whole nest of crazy in this building.

  8

  Gabriel

  I haven’t taken a day off in over seven years, and even then, it was for my mother’s funeral. But for the first time in my life, I can’t bring myself to set foot in my office, and I certainly don’t go home. I don’t want to see Demi. I can’t face her right now. It’s been a week.

  Of all the knock-me-on-my-ass revelations since that last night, I suppose the most surprising is that I can skip out on work and my company doesn’t grind to a halt without me. Which is probably nothing new to any normal person. For a workaholic, it’s a shot to the gut I’m not as crucial to the day-to-day as I thought I was.

  I’m not sitting on my ass or crying into a hotel pillow, either. It takes two days to try to get my head together and figure out what the fuck is going on. It takes another three to dig around and do some investigating.

  At first, I was too pissed off and didn’t want to think about Demi at all. I thought I met someone different, someone who didn’t want something from me or try to mess with my head. But I learned a long time ago there aren’t people like that in the world. Even the people you think love you and would be there for you through anything end up having their own agenda. Once you build something beyond their means, it’s the people close to you who see their opening, or forget who you are and turn on you. Seems like Demi is no different, but for a moment, I thought she was. No matter what I threw at her, she was determined to take it, prove me wrong. So beautiful and strong, I don’t think any man on the planet could resist that forever. But of course it was a lie. She wouldn’t be the first person to let me down.

  But then the emails started to come in. From Sheryl, that reporter. The first ones were all selfless, a big show of defending Demi and begging to meet so Sheryl could explain “on Demi’s behalf.” I deleted each one, but they kept coming. They eventually turned into offers to meet “just to talk,” and veiled intimations she could “repair” my reputation. After two days, she gave up the ruse and started resorting to threats—that her readers would be interested to learn that I sleep with employees. And on and on.