by Luke Steel
Annoying as the stalking is, Sheryl tipped her hand with that shit. Whatever’s happening, Sheryl seemed to be the instigator, the mastermind. I know this because I don’t get word one from Demi. No emails, no calls. She makes no attempt to reach out.
The only question is how involved Demi is with Sheryl’s plotting. How they know each other and what Demi knew. And so I start making some calls.
My HR team was thorough, so Demi is indeed everything her résumé purported her to be. Remarkable student, very bright and gifted. Two years between her Bachelors and Masters degree, during which she was promoted rapidly at the small development company where she worked. And until she came to Minneapolis, there’s no indication she had anything to do with Mangovan Companies, or tried to.
Sheryl is a different story. Mangovan Companies’ internal records of press requests indicate that Sheryl Thomas requested interviews with me multiple times at no less than three different media outlets over a three-year period. Records also indicated that she demanded many press credentials to cover all of our high-profile events, angling for invitations. I didn’t recognize her from any of those events, but then I usually hate going to them and leave the glad-handing to our team whenever I can. It was her near-constant contact that afforded her opportunity to track when employment opportunities came up. At one point she even tried to cross the aisle and get hired on as a PR person with Mangovan. HR rejected her as a candidate, but she eventually referred Demi. I still can’t figure out why on that one.
It’s easy enough to learn how the two women know each other. But every trail leads to Sheryl. Even the apartment. In fact, it’s when I begin digging into the mystery behind how Sheryl and Demi moved into my building that I think I start to see the pattern.
But I still don’t know about Demi. And the uncertainty is bullshit. I don’t want it in my life. I want to go back to what I know, which is that everyone has an angle, no exceptions. It doesn’t matter if Demi was Sheryl’s partner or her pawn. It’s all tainted now. But that thought doesn’t help me when I’m slugging scotch, staring at her number in my phone. It doesn’t help me forget the way she smiles, the way she felt in my arms. It doesn’t keep my hard-on away no matter how many times I jerk off to the thought of her.
It doesn’t keep me from missing her.
I return to work the following week. I’m still holed up in a hotel across town and avoiding my apartment, but I have a business to run. I’m both disappointed and relieved to slip into the building without spotting Demi.
This can’t last. A simple solution might be to just fire her. I don’t want a scene or any kind of trouble, but that might be best. I just wish I knew if it was all just a setup from the start. She hasn’t tried to reach me to explain herself.
My assistants fill me in on the little things I missed while I was away, chirping questions here and there to try and feel out where I was. I’m happy to shut them out of my office, finally. I realize a few seconds later that this is the room where Demi and I had sex.
I deliberately stop in the spot next to the desk where I held her after she came that first day. She was so overwhelmed and sweet, I could have stood with her like that for hours. I wonder where she is, if she’s in the building now. The idea I’m this close to her is making me antsy.
And that’s when I spot the white envelope placed neatly on my chair. Typed and neat, marked personal.
I slice open the envelope, and there are two pieces of paper inside. The first is a signed letter of resignation, from Demi. The second: a check for ten thousand dollars.
My chest aches when I look at the date on both. Demi wrote this the morning after the blow-up. A week ago.
“What are you doing here?”
“You put your forwarding address in your exit packet.”
Demi is standing half in, half out of her apartment—her new place, apparently, in a building completely across town from mine. She’s wearing the white dress she had on the morning I first met her.
I’m a little worked up right now, but I’m still a red-blooded man. I have to make an effort to keep my eyes from wandering—the fabric is as sheer as I remembered.
Demi’s nowhere near the happy, light-hearted woman I met that morning, though. She looks pale, a little sad. And unhappy to see me darken her door.
I hold up her letter. “I got this.”
Demi crosses her arms. “You have my resignation and your money, Gabriel. What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
Meow
Both of us turn to see that Ray has come to the door, too. He’s sitting pretty in the hallway, looking up at both of us.
After a long silence, Demi slowly stands aside to let me pass. There are a few boxes here and there, but the overall the place is small and spare. Much, much smaller than the unit she had in my building. She seems to have cut all ties to Sheryl and me by moving here. New place, no job.
“What do you want, Gabriel?
It’s a good question. I don’t entirely know. My questions about Demi have persisted for a week—some things I feel like I know, other things I tell myself I just want to believe because I was starting to fall for her.
I read her resignation letter, and that didn’t tell me anything. Just four short, professional sentences, that all amount to one thing: I quit.
The question I’m asking myself now is, if it was all a game, why isn’t she hanging on, holding out for some kind of payday? Demi has a pretty little termination suit if she wants one: I was her boss and we slept together. Sheryl threatened as much. I’ve been taken to court for far less. I don’t want to put any ideas in Demi’s head, but my instinct tells me that if that was her play, I’d have heard it by now. But instead, Demi ran, fast and far.
With all that spinning around in my head, I realize I should answer Demi’s question. “I’d like some answers. I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
Demi swallows.
Only thing to do is dive in. “Were you in on it, Demi? Did you concoct this whole plan between you?”
She scoffs. “No. I had no idea I was getting sucked into this. I didn’t know what happened between the two of you.”
Something about that sentence seems a little off to me, but I’ll come back to it. “So Sheryl didn’t tell you what she wanted when she referred you for the job?”
“No. And if I’d known, there’s no way—no way!—I would have had anything to do with anything between you two.”
I’m surprised by how vehement she seems, and it dawns on me Demi seems to be hurt, even angry. At me.
“Why do you keep saying ‘between you two?’”
Demi glares. “Sheryl came clean, ok? She told me about the apartment and the job. Why she wrote that article. Maybe you won’t be stupid enough to do interviews with past lovers next time.”
“Whoa, you are way, way off with that one. We were never lovers.”
“She said that you pretended not to remember her. Or maybe you really didn’t. You’re such a rich, successful guy, women just throw themselves at you and you don’t have to remember them.” Demi isn’t being sarcastic—she seems to believe this. “She confessed that she did get a little obsessed with you, moved into the building and wanted me to spy, but she told me it’s because you used her. You slept with her and tossed her aside, but then asked her to interview you when you wanted that profile. I know the way you treated me before we had sex. Maybe that’s what you were going to do to me, too, when you were done.”
“Look, Demi, I’m beginning to get an idea of what she told you, but it’s all bullshit. I should show you the emails she sent me about you! How you read about me online, begged her to set it up so that you could meet me, work for me. How you manipulated her into helping you.”
“What?” Demi’s voice is a near shriek.
“Yeah, exactly. Email after email trying to get me to see her so she can apologize on your behalf.”
Demi throws herself into an overstuffed armchair, incredulou
s. “How can you believe any of that?”
“I don’t. But this half-truth shit is getting really tired. Some things are real, some aren’t. Tell me what’s real?”
“What’s real?” her eyes glitter when she stands again and faces off with me on her carpet. “What’s real is you acted like a giant jackass to me because of her article. What’s real is enduring week after week of a mean-spirited ruthless jerk picking on me because I called him a name. Or maybe that’s another part of Sheryl’s story that isn’t a lie. Maybe you did sleep together and she burned you publicly. Why else would you be so upset about a stupid article and someone calling you a stupid name?” Demi wipes at her tears. “But I still liked you and I slept with you despite my better judgement. And now I don’t know what to believe.”
She turns away and tosses back over her shoulder. “But if you’re lying and you did sleep with her—ever—get out of my apartment. Get out right now.”
The silence then is deafening. I think we’re both trying to parse things, figure out what to believe.
The only thing I can think to do is tell her what else I know. “Demi, the emails she’s been sending me this past week are easy enough to show you. I think she’s telling us different things to keep us from comparing notes. But I also looked into who owns unit 16C in my building. She bought it in her parents’ names about two months before the interview. She rigged the doors between our floors so that she could slip up and down the service stairs. And when her little seduction didn’t work, the article became a hit piece. She was pouting. But I still can’t figure out why she dragged you into it.”
Demi sniffles, her voice bitter. “It wouldn’t be the first time. I was always good cover for her when we were kids. She wanted an in at your company and I was the only person she knew who was qualified to do it and gullible enough to go along. Because we were ‘friends.’”
Demi turns on me. “But that doesn’t explain why you treated me that way for so long. We didn’t know anything about Sheryl then.”
My turn to be embarrassed. Demi’s stare is unflinching, steady. I take a deep breath and plunge in.
“How much did you know about me, how it started?”
“I memorized the official company story, but not much more. I can tell you all about the income statements.”
“You might have heard the Mangovan the Monster rumors about me and my parents.”
Demi gives a quick intake of breath. “Sheryl said something about that once. I didn’t know what she was talking about.”
I sigh. “Well, then, you didn’t go very far in any web searches about Mangovan when you came to work for me. I inherited the first of the Mangovan Companies from my father, a little machine and die shop. I had a business partner back then. He also happened to be my stepfather. Frank.” I walk to the window, thinking back and remembering.
“When he married my mother, Frank ran the shop for our family. He took up where my dad left off—my mother knew nothing about business. He did a decent job all the way up until I was old enough to take over. We were always pretty steady, but when I stepped in, things changed. Started to grow. It took a lot of hard work, but the money grew faster and deeper than our relationship ever had. Frank took credit for the success, even though I was the one who changed almost everything. For a while I was even happy to let him take credit for so much because it was true that we would have lost everything if he hadn’t run it all those years. Soon, though, he chafed at my making decisions and we started to bicker over turf and investments.
“My poor mother got caught in the middle, of course. That’s not why she got sick, but it didn’t help. Early onset Alzheimer’s. Eventually, Frank ended up being the one to take care of her while I continued to push and grow. The Mangovan shop became Mangovan Companies, and pretty soon we were expanding to more states. Frank had to watch from the sidelines. As payback, he sidelined me when it came to my mother’s care. Less frequent visits, no information about her care and her worsening condition. He never kept me from seeing her, but he limited my visits with her, deliberately made it harder. I paid for her nursing staff, made sure they had everything they needed. I never said no, and there was plenty of money. Practically threw money at doctors, I couldn’t spend it fast enough. I just wanted her to be OK. When I did see her, though, when she remembered me, my mother somehow believed they were on the verge of destitute, that I was going to kick her out into the street. As her mind went, she called me cruel, selfish. A little asshole.”
Demi shakes her head. “Gabriel, that was her disease talking, not her. Alzheimer’s patients are often angry, distraught. Even paranoid. Their minds are going.” I don’t ask her how she knows that, but the look Demi gives me intimates she’s speaking from experience. I think of the older couple in the picture on her desk.
I shrug. “I know that. Here.” I point at my head. “It was hard not to feel it. My mother passed away frightened of the world. And she thought I was the boogie man. Her own son.”
I rush through the rest of the story because I want to be done with the past. “After she died, my stepfather claimed that he wanted to ‘cash in shares’ that didn’t exist. Tons of money. I paid at first, but then the demands got more outrageous, and I finally had enough. By then, Mangovan Companies was twenty times what it had been. Frank took me to court, tried to slander me to investors and share-holders. The optics were a nightmare. Gabriel Mangovan was suddenly a notorious playboy monster who wouldn’t even help his own family. Things got really nasty when Frank died of a heart attack midway through the court negotiations. Reporters were ruthless. Conspiracies abound.
“But it wasn’t true. None of it. I’m no angel, but I’m not a monster. I’m not a…”
Demi finishes for me. “…you’re not an asshole.”
I hold up my hands. “There you have it. The morning I opened the paper and saw Sheryl’s piece, you and Ray somehow made it into my apartment. And you’re so beautiful and friendly, but then it all got ruined by what she wrote. I took it out on you.” I jut my chin at her. “I’m not trying to make excuses. I was an asshole. To you. I just want to explain what happened.”
Demi crosses her arms, looks down at the floor. She seems to be processing everything. It’s a lot. When she looks up, she brushes her hair out of her eyes and looks at me. “Did you… did you sleep with Sheryl?” She seems embarrassed by the question.
I can only blink for a second, surprised at the change of topic. “No. I turned on the lights and this woman I barely remembered was naked on a bed.”
“She said you tried to.”
“At this point I think we both know Sheryl’s account of things always seems to serve her own ends.”
“Did you sleep with her before? Lead her on, or…?”
“Demi, no. Whatever the reason for her obsession, I think it had more to do with things I didn’t do, rather than things I did.”
Demi nods and turns away from me, a hand to her forehead. I give her some space until I see her shoulders start to shake and I realize she might be crying. I can’t stop myself. I go to her, put my hands on her shoulders.
And it’s a small miracle when she turns in my arms and throws them around me. I crush her close, bury my face in her neck, her hair. Breathe her in. I hold her like that for a while, and I love the way she just fits against me, like she’s a piece I’ve been missing my whole life. There’s a muffled sound and I realize she’s talking against my chest. I only let her go a little so I can hear her, but otherwise my arms stay exactly where they are.
“I didn’t want to believe anything she said. And the stories were such a mess, I didn’t know what to think by the end of it all. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” I say the apology against her skin while I kiss her lips, her cheeks. “I’m sorry, too.”
Demi’s lips find mine and in no time we’re tangling up. Her body fits just so and she angles her mouth to take more from me. Holding her isn’t enough, and I reach down and take her luscious ass in my hands, pul
l her up so I can make my, uh, presence felt. She pulls back to smile at me, a naughty look narrowing her eyes.
I have one or two more questions, though.
“Are you still quitting?”
Demi throws her head back and laughs. I love the sound.
“No,” she says, and accentuates the word with a kiss on my chin. “Not unless you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Ok,” she beams. And she’s about to lean in to kiss me again, when I stop her.
“I ripped up your check, by the way.”
That gives her pause.
“I don’t expect you to give me your life savings for a stupid couch.”
“How did you know?”
“Financial disclosure when you came to work for me. Demi, you were really going to give me everything you have for a dumb couch?”
“Well someone gave me an invoice for a ruined sofa. ‘Perforations in the antique Italian leather,’” she mocks, evidently quoting the bill. My designer got a little creative in describing the extent of the damage, I see. “I pay my debts.”
“It’s Ray’s debt, actually.” I look around for the orange football, and spot him a few feet away. The cat is snoozing, bored with us, apparently.
“He doesn’t do money.”
“Huh, how nice for him.”
Pretty kittenish green eyes look up at me, and they don’t belong to the feline. “If you won’t take money for the damage, what will you take?”
I recognize that soft tone in her voice, and I slip a hand up to cup her breast.
“Mmm.” Demi practically purrs when I touch her, stretching and reveling under my hands. I want a little more room to work, so I pick Demi up in my arms and she points in the direction of her bedroom.
A long, long time later, Ray makes an entrance at the bedroom door, loudly announcing it’s time for his dinner.
Demi’s snoozing against my shoulder while I stroke her hair. I peek at Ray over her shoulder and pat the bed next to us. Ray jumps up and settles in against Demi’s back and starts to purr. I’m careful not to pet him, but I hold my hand out.
