Slave to Love

by Julie A. Richman

“I’d like you to meet two of the best sales directors in the country,” Kemp ushers us in. “Hale, this is Susan Smith, my east coast and now Pacific Northwest sales director and Sierra Stone, who manages the Midwest through California.”

  “Pleasure meeting you, Susan.” Hale extends a hand to Cuntessa, gracing her with a smile that probably made her want to dance naked for him.

  When he makes no move to greet me, I extend a hand, “Sierra,” I reintroduce myself.

  He looks at me, the affect in his eyes flat. “Yes, I got it the first time.”

  He doesn’t shake my hand. Douche.

  “What are you drinking?” Kemp turns around to us.

  “Chardonnay.” Cuntessa is so boring.

  “I’ll have a Red Snapper.” The bartender’s eyes are twinkling the minute he hears that come out of my mouth and I can’t help but smile back at him. Kemp joins Hale with a Guinness.

  Picking up my drink off the bar, Susan announces, “That’s a Bloody Mary. What fancy name did you call that?”

  I want to slap her, but just smile. “A Red Snapper.” And I take it from her, immediately diving in for a much needed sip of the spicy treat.

  “Why?”

  “Because this is where the Bloody Mary was first created and the name they originally called it was the Red Snapper.”

  “You are a wealth of information,” Kemp kids me.

  “Well, long ago a friend of mine was the bar manager, so I’ve done my fair share of drinking here.” I choose to omit the story that is dying to come out of my mouth. See that spot on the bar right there? Yup, that one, right there. Well, one night, after four Red Snappers, I climbed up onto the bar and hiked up my skirt, (which was, yes, shorter than this one that I’m wearing tonight and I was, of course, going commando), and showed my boyfriend my brand new Brazilian wax, which he must’ve loved, because after he went down on me, he fucked me long and hard. And then he made me another Red Snapper. Obviously, on the house.

  “Legal issues were ironed out today and I gave it my blessing late this afternoon,” Hale informs Kemp.

  I watch Kemp’s face take on a glorious smile as the two men engage in a vigorous handshake and backslapping apropos more for a locker room than a hotel bar.

  Turning to me and Cuntessa, our boss announces, “Ladies, I would like you to meet our newest client.”

  Susan squeals and goes in for a hug with Hale, who bristles at her touch. The man is clearly not a hugger, although she didn’t notice. SpaceCloud is headquartered out of New York, so the bitch just picked up a huge client that neither she nor her team invested any time in selling. This one was a gift, a huge fucking gift, which just fell into her lap. I want to puke. And the bitch was busting on me all day trying to poach San Francisco.

  I smile, my poker face shining brightly, “Awesome news.” And I signal to the bartender for another Red Snapper. With SpaceCloud now part of her portfolio, the balance of power may have just shifted, finally positioning Cuntessa’s team to outsell mine. Hale Lundström doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken.

  The ramifications of this news are horrendous, personally and professionally. If Kemp were to be promoted, and Susan had better sales numbers, there would be nothing stopping him from backfilling his position with his evil little protégé. I’m fucked. Totally and positively fucked. And it’s this handsome man who has acted like I’m invisible that has caused my corporate demise.

  I just want to kick him hard in one of his long jean’s clad shins and then go off and cry, but I’ve got to take it like a pro, smile on my face. Which I do.

  “When would it be convenient to schedule me, Susan and her team to come in and meet your team and get the ball rolling?”

  Hale pulls his cell phone out of the inner pocket of his blazer and types out a message. “Let me get my admin on it.”

  Looking at my watch, I nudge Cuntessa. “We need to head downtown to the Old Homestead.” I know from her look she wants to kill me. There’s no way she wants to leave Hale and Kemp.

  Hale stands and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. As he moves his jacket to the side, I can see his slim hips and athletic ass. Damn he’s a fine specimen, too bad he’s a douche.

  He pulls out his wallet and removes a business card and hands it to Susan. She digs through her purse and reciprocates.

  “Well, nice meeting you.” I can’t get out of there fast enough. Between this too gorgeous for his own good, arrogant dude basically being rude to me, and Cuntessa getting the account gift of a lifetime, I’ve had enough. I need to get downtown to the Old Homestead and drown my sorrows in a very large, exceedingly rare and bloody ribeye. On the damn bone! Because it will be the only bone I’m thrown.

  Hale turns to me and hands me a card.

  “Oh, I’m not,” I start to explain that my team won’t be on his account, when I feel Kemp’s hand on my back, pinching me. Shutting up, I dig out my card case and hand the man a card.

  Glancing at it, there’s a look of surprise on his face. “You’re located in Austin?”

  “Yes,” I nod.

  “Great tech town. Austin’s our fastest growing division. We’re adding 7,000 jobs to our facility there over the next eighteen months and more expansion planned over a thirty-six month period.”

  “Yes, I read that in the Austin Business Journal. Congratulations,” hoping he doesn’t pick up my bluff. How the fuck did I miss that, I wonder? That’s huge news.

  As I turn to leave, the elusive hand of Hale Lundström is extended for a handshake. I guess he doesn’t have a germ phobia after all.

  “Nice meeting you,” I effortlessly lie. Actually meeting you made me feel like shit. You’re an asshole and you’re gorgeous.

  He leans down and whispers, “You have perfect legs for Louboutins.”

  Making eye contact, to show him I’m not afraid of his inappropriate little games, I don’t thank him for the compliment, but instead acknowledge with, “I know, don’t I.”

  And with a quick smile, I’m off, and fighting very hard not to look back. I’m pissed. I’m excited. I’m confused. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, whose face I’ll be envisioning when I’m touching myself in my hotel room bed later in the evening. And there is no doubt in my mind that I will be touching myself.

  It’s impossible not to watch her toned calves as she walks away. Some women were meant to wear come-fuck-me shoes and short skirts and this is one of them. And that skirt, it’s the color of the water at the Bitter End Yacht Club in Virgin Gorda. With a mermaid surfing the crest of her cleavage; damn, she killed me. I was a tongue tied ass. Louboutins, that skirt, that amazing rack and so little makeup, it actually looked like she was wearing no make-up at all. Girl next door gorgeous. Women like that were usually hiding behind a well applied mask, so expertly crafted that you never really knew what you were going to get in the morning. But this one – what you saw was exactly what you were going to get.

  “They’re quite a duo,” I comment to Kemp.

  Rolling his eyes, “Two of the best sales managers I have ever seen, but do not tangle with those bitches,” he says affectionately. “They are without a doubt the most efficient and effective sales management execs in the company.”

  “They’re so different.” I need to know more about her. I know her team is not on my account and I’m disappointed. I’m also relieved.

  “Night and day those two. And competitive as all hell.”

  “Different management styles?” I probe, as I drain my pint of Guinness.

  “Understatement. Susan is very detail-oriented and manages with a firm hand. Sierra is a big picture person who looks for creative solutions and rolls up her sleeves to get into the trenches with her team.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got one manager and one leader,” I offer my assessment of the two women.

  Kemp thinks for a moment and nods.

  “So who’s your backfill?” I’m interested in seeing how he builds his organization for a successful future. />
  “Well, it’s always been me and Susan from the start. I brought her into this division with the understanding that she would be my backfill when I moved into my next role. Promises have been made.” He sips his beer. “Sierra joined us a while back from another team in the company.”

  “So the manager over the leader?” I press.

  “It would be hard to go back on a promise, but Sierra is the better producer and as you picked up on, a leader. Her people would run through walls for her.”

  Leaning on the highly polished bar, “They appear pretty competitive. Would one work for the other?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think whoever doesn’t get the position will very quickly become a free agent.” Picking up the fresh beer the bartender has delivered, it suddenly tastes sweeter.

  Having recently received a lot of flak from the trade press, investors and my board on SpaceCloud’s lack of females in top executive roles, Sierra Stone could be a natural solution to getting the heat off me. A proven performer from a Fortune 100 company with a solid track record, I wonder how I can get her up to speed on his dime for an easy transition when the time comes.

  Sierra Stone could take care of a multitude of my needs. And looking at those legs and following that mermaid’s tail on a daily basis would not suck.

  No, not at all.

  “If I have to listen to her say Hale this and Hale that and we’re interfacing with Hale’s team on blah blah blah, I’m going to puke,” I confide in two of my California staff. We’ve been friends from long before I moved into management and since I haven’t been their manager, we’ve all remained close. Now they’re working for me, which will have its challenges, but I know this inner circle will have my back and be my ears and eyes throughout the company. They will personally launch the SCUD missiles aimed at me from Cuntessa’s team. The intel that works its way up through the sales force is crucial to survival in the cat and mouse corporate world. Without it, you’re dead without knowing what even hit you. Yes, it’s that harsh. Sometimes you’re dead and don’t even know you’re dead. It’s like living The Sixth Sense.

  “Did you see who she put on the account?” Monica, my San Francisco rep comments, the sun glinting off her auburn highlights as we enjoy watching the hard bodied Malibu boys from our beachside table at Gladstone’s.

  Beverly, my girl in Los Angeles, rolls her eyes. “That Barbie doll who’s having the affair with Bob Mannon,” she laughs, “whom she refers to as her ‘mentor’.” And in a breathy voice, she does an imitation, “My mentor, Bob, gave me this book. It’s positively brilliant. Have you read it? Bob is so brilliant.”

  We all laugh at the spot-on bimbo imitation.

  “Who hasn’t had an affair with Bob Mannon?” The question is rhetorical, but the three of us all raise our hands. “You know we are the only three in the company he hasn’t nailed,” observes Monica and for a moment I wonder what’s wrong with me, but quickly shoo away that thought. Bob operates under the premise that the president title on his business card means all women in the organization are fair game to service his needs.

  Barbie, who actually has a name, Robyn Stiles, is a tall statuesque blonde, who has no qualms about telling everyone she meets that her number one goal in life is to be the first woman president of the company. Fiercely loyal to Cuntessa, bringing in Barbie was a strategic move to engage Hale on multiple levels as a way to expand his billings. The woman is very attractive with a mane of long thick hair that is enviable. She has enough hair for three people and has totally perfected ‘the fling’.

  Just thinking about it pisses me off. Not that I should care who handles Hale Lundström, but the thought of him doing her and then having Cuntessa’s team crush mine in the sales rankings as a result, really ticks me off.

  “Is he as good looking in real life?” Beverly is looking at Google images on her phone.

  I hate to admit it, but I nod. “He’s handsome in that rich boy, and I know it, kind of way. But he’s a man. He’s very manly. He’s not cute. He’s handsome,” I stumble.

  “I think he grew up upper middle class, but not really in a wealthy family or anything like that,” Monica has done some online stalking, aka client research, on the man. “What’s so interesting about him is that he dropped out of MIT, so obviously the guy is really smart, then he joined the armed forces, and from what I read was a Special Ops guy, but there is not a lot of specific information about his time in the service.”

  “Special Ops, like covert missions?” Beverly’s stalking begins in earnest, both thumbs racing over her phone’s keyboard.

  Monica nods. “All that makes him even hotter. Smart, rich, mysterious and can totally kick ass.”

  “Sounds great, and he’s probably fucking Robyn.” I hate that this bothers me. I really hate it.

  But what I think I hate most is that I’ve worked my butt off to be the best that I can be, I’ve built a successful team and Cuntessa and crew waltz in, are handed an account they didn’t sell – that they didn’t earn on their own merit – and my promotion goes down the drain, while I listen to, “When we met with Hale and his people this week,” “We had an amazing off-site teambuilding with Hale and his crew,” “Hale is just so interesting to work with.”

  Hale, Hale, Hale. Fuck Hale Lundström and the techy cloud he flew in on.

  Sun glinting off the ocean is the best way to start the day. Standing on the balcony of my hotel room the next morning, fresh orange juice in hand, this trip to work with my newly acquired California sales team is just what I needed to escape the 104 degree temperature in Austin, which is a great place to live, but summers are too long and too hot.

  Even my cell phone ringing, and breaking the morning’s peacefulness, can’t wipe the smile from my face on this beautiful California morning. Walking back into my room to grab the phone, “Hold on a sec,” I answer, “I need to pick the sand out of my butt.”

  “Slacker. Why aren’t you working yet?” my boss asks.

  “Why am I awake, is more the question?” We were out with the Universal Studios people pretty late last night and it’s only 7 A.M. here. But my body thinks it is in central time.

  “You didn’t pull any waitresses into your lap last night, did you?”

  “No, it was a slow night,” I laugh. “I have really gotten an earful from the reps out here about that lunatic’s antics. Thank God you canned her ass. So what’s up?” I know he’s not calling to check on the status of California.

  “I need you to call Hale Lundström,” he sounds a little nervous.

  “Hale Lundström? Why?” Okay, now that one took me by surprise.

  “Yeah, he’s pulling together some very high level tech event in Austin and he’s going to need some assistance.”

  “And you want me to talk to him?” I’m totally surprised. Number one, the man has staff there that I’m assuming he can work with to handle Austin events and number two, he and his team have Susan, Robyn and the rest of her crew to fulfill any of his needs from our company.

  “It’s not me suggesting he talk to you. He requested to speak to you directly about it.”

  I’m silent. Totally dumbfounded. “And Susan is okay with this?”

  Kemp sighs and I can just picture his face, “I’ll take care of that.”

  “She’s not going to be happy.” Susan and I are almost at a state of peaceful coexistence, which is rare – and actually pleasant. Our rivalry has been not so friendly at times and stepping on each other’s toes on accounts has resulted in fierce and unpleasant battles.

  “Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if she’s happy or not. Just make Lundström happy.” And he hangs up on me.

  I have no idea how I’m going to make this man happy. I’m totally clueless about his business.

  My phone beeps again. This time a text from Kemp with Hale’s cell number and the message, Call him today.

  I text him back with the amazing news I would have shared had he not been so curt an
d hung up on my ass, Oh btw, Universal Studios is comping us a table for ten people at a huge fundraiser they are doing for soldiers returning from overseas. Politicians (including several living Presidents!!, actors, performers, etc.). Totally “A” list Hollywood/DC kind of stuff. We should pick a select group of clients and make a client event out of it. I’ll have Beverly and Monica put together a strategic list of their local clients to attend.

  Invite Lundström

  I was thinking logistically it would be best as an event for local west coast clients, I respond.

  Invite Lundström

  I know better than to push any further or Kemp will blow.

  Sitting on a chair on the balcony, I put my feet up on the wrought-iron railing. My hotel robe falls open and I laugh aloud. Yup, I’m going to call this man half naked. He won’t have a clue, but I will.

  “Lundström.” He picks up on the first ring.

  Even though I’m calling him, I’m startled, “Hale, hi, it’s Sierra Stone, Kemp Mc…”

  He cuts me off, “Hey Sierra, thanks for getting back to me. We’re done here, close the door on your way out,” he says to someone on his end. “How are you?”

  How am I? The man wants something because he clearly doesn’t give a shit how I am. This is the very same man who wouldn’t shake my hand or acknowledge my presence upon meeting me.

  “Great. What can I help you with?” I can’t do small talk with this guy. He makes me nervous. And now that I have the Special Ops tidbit of information in my brain, I’m really intimidated.

  “I’m pulling together an event that needs to stay under the radar.”

  “Okay. Can you tell me what kind of event?” What the fuck does that have to do with me?

  “It’s a very high level, very private tech think tank, C-Level execs of tech companies domestically and internationally and energy and technology foreign ministers.”

  “Okay.” There’s a silence. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me. Do your marketing/events staff and PR people need the names of some folks on the ground in Austin to pull it together?”