For some reason, I looked down at myself as if I needed verification. “More or less.” Although some might disagree. “The main office didn’t warn you what you were getting into?”
“They did, but I wasn’t listening.”
“Okay.” Honest. Blunt. Obviously confident, and definitely used to getting what he wants. I’d have to thank Emilia later.
“In my experience, the first person you speak with isn’t the one with the answers. They are mediators. When I work with someone, I prefer to hear details and definitions directly from them. In addition to providing the information, I also get a feel for what they consider their strengths and weaknesses, which a mediator probably isn’t aware of. Does that answer the question you were thinking but didn’t verbalize?”
“Absolutely: You don’t trust the first person you speak to, and you’re a bad listener. Got it.”
He chuckled. Hallelujah! The first sign of humanity. “Exactly.”
I gave him the condensed version—he could assign whatever work he needed to be done, anything he would ask a regular, in-office assistant or secretary to do. “Obviously, I can’t do any tasks that involve non-virtual behavior, like picking up coffee or dry cleaning. I can order gifts online and have them delivered to whomever you want, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t ask me to order anything too…intimate, if you know what I mean.”
“Intimate?” he asked.
“Intimate. Like…um…” The first thing that came to my mind—and rarely left it unfortunately—was an old client who’d asked me to pick out something from a particular website for his girlfriend. Until that moment, I’d thought the only thing made from PVC was pipe. Silly me.
I’m no prude. In fact, one of my current clients owns the second largest online adult toy store in the country. But buying fetish gear for someone’s girlfriend was a line I didn’t want to cross…or get within thirty feet of.
“Anything…um…too…” How to define something sexual without mentioning sex? “Too…um…” I should Google it. “I could send you a link to a definition.” Might take me a while to find one without dirty pictures, though.
“Thank you, but contrary to what some might think, I am familiar with the word and its various meanings.” I could almost hear the laughter in his tone. “Nothing too intimate. Understood. Please continue.”
I told him the things I excelled at, namely anything to do with computers and social media, but I left out the hacking for obvious reasons.
“So basically, you can use me for whatever.” Oh man, did that sound wrong. “I mean, whatever you might use a normal, non-intimate assistant—” Crap! That didn’t sound much better—as if he had countless other intimate assistants, too. Did I forget to turn my brain on today? Seriously, it was like I had no control over what came out of my mouth. “I mean—”
“I understood what you meant.”
After I was done stuttering, I said, “So…did that make your head hurt?” As much as it did mine?
“Mildly.”
“Bummer. Unfortunately, I can’t get you any aspirin because that goes against the whole ‘virtual’ thing.”
“So, in effect, you are a genie in a bottle that I can tell to do whatever I need done, whenever I need it done?”
“Right. But I dress more conservatively than your typical genie.” And there was no rubbing involved. “You get more than three wishes, though. As long as your checks clear.”
“Then more like Siri, the virtual helper on my phone.”
“Good comparison, yeah. Although, I don’t freeze or tell you to try again later as often. Also, if you ask me a stupid question, I don’t have a preset polite response.”
“It’s always been my belief that there are no stupid questions, just stupid people who ask them.”
Oh shit, I was giggling. I should hang up now. Go back to bed. Forever.
“I don’t think Siri has that nice of a laugh either,” he said quietly. “It’s all a little bizarre, isn’t it?”
“What is?” Me? This conversation? My sudden and inexplicable girliness?
“Working closely with someone without ever looking into their eyes. Doing everything over the phone.”
“Actually, we’ll do very little over the phone.” Thankfully, because I speak much better in writing. “It usually works better to use email or other chat features like— Does Gmail chat give you a headache?”
“Perhaps it would if I knew what Gmail chat was.”
“Oh boy. We’re starting at the beginning, aren’t we?” I wouldn’t have guessed it from his voice, but anyone this tech-deficient had to be in his late-fifties or early-sixties. Slightly balding and hoping his expensive suit covered his paunch. Not that I’d ever be able to verify it, but I gave myself a 90% chance of being right.
“I’ve just become far less intimidating, haven’t I?”
“Of course not, Mr. Bennett. You’re highly intimidating. Or you would be if you hadn’t asked that question—truly intimidating people don’t care if they’re intimidating.”
“Actually, truly intimidating people enjoy being intimidating, so they care quite a bit. Believe me, I know.”
I blew out a breath. Hayden Bennett wasn’t going to be an easy one.
As soon as we hung up, I started investigating the Conure Group. I should’ve done it before we spoke, to be prepared for his call, but very few of my clients actually call me, and none of them had ever called on a weekend. I would’ve mentioned my office hours to him if I actually had office hours…or a life outside my virtual one.
I Googled the company name, deliberately avoiding images and anything personal about Hayden himself. That was a no-no for me—looking up the actual person I was working for. I didn’t need to know what he posted on social media, did in his free time, or what he looked like. In fact, that just complicated things. This was business.
“Okay.” Typical stuff—if you consider a gigantic shipping company typical—no mentions of evil plans to take over the world, no big scandals, at least not on the first page. The website said it was founded in a tiny North Beach office in 1984 by two friends who’d met at Stanford. Good for them. But I didn’t care. Now publicly owned, although Bart Chalmers and “HP Bennett” as the site referred to him, still ran the day-to-day. I scrolled down past the side-by-side pictures of the two men in their forties, looking very stoic and boring. For a brief moment, I wondered which was Hayden. But I kept scrolling, kept skimming the words, looking for anything that might help me do my job better.
Each division had a different tab—admin, the board of directors, contact form you fill out and hope you get an answer within six to eight weeks. Still bored. Also, moderately impressed that such a large company had hired such a lame web developer. Probably someone’s nephew. These kinds of companies were built on nepotism. A link to the Bennett Foundation and the Conure Group’s charitable contributions. Nice. Much better website, too.
I went back to the Conure Group site, to the ‘about’ link. Evidently, the company logo—an ugly bird with wings that morphed into the San Francisco skyline—had been designed by HP himself, in homage to his love of San Francisco’s mysterious wild flock of parrots.
“Wow, Hayden, didn’t peg you as a bird lover.” Good thing he’d decided to go into big business because he had absolutely zero talent with design. Over the last thirty years, the friends had built that small office into an enormously successful international shipping company. Great. Lots of acquisitions and an impressive line-up of clients. According to their announcement page, they’d just signed a contract with the largest steel manufacturer in the country.
And this is why he earned the big bucks. Nothing was stated outright because smart businesses kept this stuff quiet, but a lot of their newer clientele worked in conjunction with the state government. That hinted they had other bigger, meaner clients that they didn’t mention.
I stopped clicking before my curiosity got the better of me. I’d focus on the work that Hayden gave me and
ignore any and all conclusions I made beyond that. The last thing I needed to know was that Hayden Bennett was anything more than what he let me know.
He could keep his secrets, and I’d keep mine. After all, our relationship would be a temporary, purely professional one.
4
Hayden
I checked the pads of my fingers for calluses before typing. ‘I’ll be out of town until Monday night.’ Hiring a new assistant was supposed to mean less typing, not more. But I wasn’t complaining.
‘Going someplace warm and sunny?’ Without fail, my new assistant answered almost immediately, as if she never stepped away from her computer. I wasn’t sure why that bothered me so much, but it did. Even while hoping it wouldn’t stop.
‘It’s for work, but I need you to redo a section of the contract proposal. It doesn’t sound right.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the sound,’ I typed.
‘Hang on a sec. I need to stop laughing.’ Less than two seconds later, another message popped up. ‘Okay, I’m done laughing.’
My cheeks hurt from using muscles so rarely engaged.
‘But you’re going to have to give me more to go on than ‘the sound.’’ She was very impressive, by far the best assistant I’d ever had.
Even though the virtual aspect was still uncomfortable and my typing speed annoyingly slow, it gave me an opportunity I’d never had before. Something about communicating through messages in real time, but not being face-to-face, gave me a sense of privacy. Obviously false, because what happened on the internet stayed on the internet. But my reactions and expressions were my own—if I laughed, smiled, or grimaced, no one knew. The perpetual poker face, the one I’d perfected after years of hiding other people’s secrets and a few of my own, wasn’t necessary.
In business, I’d learned to be quick, decisive, and to speak in a way that got the most out of my employees or clients. I didn’t do that with her. With her, I spoke without an underlying agenda. It was freeing. Stupid to finally be myself with someone I would never meet, but it was a nice change.
I typed, ‘You’re usually so good at knowing exactly what I want.’
‘Stop being nice. I hate that. Maybe I’m having an off day. So how about you share what’s going on inside your head for someone who isn’t in it?’
I tried to explain, hunting and pecking for the correct letters. If this were to go on for much longer, I’d need to learn how to type properly.
The Inspex project was all mine, start to finish. It had started out simply enough, merely a desire for The Conure Group to be more than just a moneymaking venture for its stockholders. I’d been on the board of my brother’s charitable foundation since the beginning and had watched Carson take the money our father had left him and turn it into something good, a way to help families and children. It took me a while, but I finally realized that I was following too closely in our dead father’s footsteps. When my father’s business partner, Bart, finally retired, I would be given his title and position in a company that hadn’t changed in thirty years. A company whose only motivator was financial gain. Regardless of how it was acquired.
Now, after an agonizing amount of networking, subtlety, and negotiating, I’d finally figured out a way to do both. In a few months, I’d be sitting in a senator’s office to present the project, and I’d walk out with a contract that would set Conure on a new path. Create new jobs, ignite an explosion in the company’s stock, and help people who would never know about the Conure Group or Hayden Bennett. I had no interest in fame, and if this project went the way it should, my family name would have nothing to do with it.
But in order for that to happen, my name was the only one that could be connected to it. Everyone else only knew the pieces they had to know, and nothing more. If I let anyone else in before everything was in place, I wouldn’t be able to control the outcome. After this much time and effort, that was a risk I couldn’t take.
When I presented the project, first to Conure’s board of directors and then to the senators, it had to be perfect. No loopholes, no gaps, no what-ifs.
After a few minutes of trying to convey what needed to be changed in the manufacturing contract, her reply popped up.
‘Okay, I think I got it. So basically, you just want me to fix the sound, right? :)’
I laughed. Five minutes of struggle and, ‘Yeah, basically.’
Totally confident she’d figure out what I needed from her, I signed off and pushed my chair back from the desk. After a few minutes of staring at a blank screen, I glanced at the night sky out my window.
When every day was the same, why did it always surprise me when they ended?
Only then did I notice the silence of the building and realize that I was alone in the normally chaotic Conure offices. Everyone else had already gone home.
Home. Yet another place to be lonely.
“Good evening, Mr. Bennett, sir,” the security guard said as he took a few steps back from me.
I nodded and headed for the elevator. The luxury apartment building was home to very few families, so it shocked me when I felt something collide with my leg, then looked down at the child clutching my pants.
“I’m so sorry!” a woman, who was probably the child’s nanny, said. “Jonathan! Let go of Mr. Bennett right this instant.” She didn’t look familiar, but I wasn’t surprised she knew my name. Clare did an excellent job of keeping our reputation pristine and our secrets well hidden.
The boy, who couldn’t have been older than four, looked up at me and smiled. The security guard left his desk and hurried toward us, passing the equally concerned nanny.
“I don’t think he plans to hurt me too badly.” I stopped them both with a raised hand and spoke to the boy. “Do you?”
Jonathan shook his head.
“Well, what can I do for you then, little man?”
“I need to poop.”
Huh. I glanced at the woman. She cringed apologetically and said, “I’m so sorry. He never goes until his dad gets home. And Mr. Coyle is running late.”
“Hmm. That makes it tougher, doesn’t it?” I asked the boy. “So how do you propose we handle this?”
“I need to poop.”
“I get that. Well, the way I see it, you have a couple options, but only one of them would keep those pants looking nice.” I blew out a breath, not wanting to laugh. “If you want, I could take you to the bathroom in the security office, and you could see what happens.” I looked at his nanny. “If that’s alright with you.”
Her mouth hung open until she said, “I…” Then I think it got stuck again.
Jonathan let go of my pants and took hold of my hand as soon as I offered it to him. I didn’t remember ever having touched a child before. My experience with them was limited to smiles from a few feet away. His skin was so soft, so delicate, so warm, I didn’t dare move for fear I’d break him. I swallowed, enjoying the slight pressure as he squeezed my fingers, all he could wrap his tiny fingers around.
“Mary-Anne?” a deep voice called from the front entrance. “What’s—?”
“Mr. Coyle!” the nanny said with relief. “Thank goodness. Jonathan needs to go to the bathroom.”
The boy’s hand disappeared from mine and reconnected with my pant leg, digging in even deeper than before.
“Jonathan? Daddy can take you now,” Mary-Anne said. “Let go of the nice man.”
My breath caught in my throat, trapped by a memory I’d pushed away long ago. Even as I saw the boy’s expression change into a grin as he let go of my leg and ran to his father, I couldn’t let go of the panic. The need to stop him, protect him from a father who was nothing like mine.
I stood absolutely frozen, trying to regain control of my breath, my heartbeat, my sanity. The others must have perceived my stillness as annoyance or anger because all three of them started apologizing at the same time.
“It’s fine,” I said finally, raising the hand Jonathan had held. “No problem at all. Re
ally.” I turned around and hurried to the elevator, letting out a deep breath when the door closed and their stupid, unnecessary apologies were silenced.
“I’m…fine.”
I went through the foyer of our apartment and down the hall toward my office to put down my briefcase. I’d do some more work as soon as I’d gotten something to eat.
Clare looked up from her e-reader when I came into the living room, blinking as if she were surprised to see me. As if I hadn’t come into this room in exactly the same way, into exactly the same silence, every day for the last three years.
Some nights she was home, and others she was out with her friends, but the silence never changed.
For a second, I was tempted to tell her about the little boy, about my bizarre reaction to his touch and the way he looked at me. But we never talked about kids or our childhoods…or anything much at all.
“How was your day?” I asked, setting my jacket across the back of a chair and loosening my tie.
She stretched like a cat in the sun. “Fine. Yours?”
“The same.” Our mandatory eight words spoken, I went to make myself dinner.
I opened up the fridge and pulled out eggs and some vegetables. Great, nothing but the Camembert Clare loved. I looked toward the living room but decided against it. Our housekeeper ordered the groceries to be delivered every Wednesday, I think. I could live without cheese for a few days.
I wrote a quick note to Helen to make sure she included it on the shopping list and then thought of the little boy again. My virtual assistant would get a good laugh from that story. Staring at my phone, I tapped my fingers on the granite. It could wait until tomorrow.
“Can you stop that? I have a headache.”
I looked up and saw Clare leaning on the center island. That was unexpected. “Did you take something for it?”
“Yeah, but it hasn’t kicked in yet.” She nodded toward the ingredients I’d gathered. “If that’s for omelets, would you make me one, too?”
Virtually Impossible (Once and Forever #2) Page 3
