Spoiled

by Elizabeth Cash

  The entire ride down, no words are exchanged between us. It’s an awkward and uncomfortable silence that I’m not okay with. Normally I have to tell people to shut the hell up because all they want to do is talk about their day and whatever topic that is unimportant to me. Things like family birthdays coming up or anniversaries or how their kid just won their third soccer game or how their child is going to have a baby. Stupid pointless words that mean absolutely nothing to me. Most of the time I tell them to shut it before they even open their mouth. Others, I humor and allow them a few spare seconds of my time. It only takes a good five seconds before I get distracted or completely uninterested. Their lives mean nothing to me. All that matters is that they are here, punching the time clock, and doing the work they are paid to do.

  The elevator dings as it descends to the twelfth floor, and we both step out. Much to my surprise, Micah heads in the same direction as me. He walks just a few feet behind me, and I make sure to add a little bit more swing to my hips as I walk. If he is going to be back there, might as well give a little show of what I got. My body is my temple, and I treat it as such. I go to the gym every day and eat healthier than most vegans and vegetarians. The best part about me, despite the rumors, is everything is natural. My tits and ass are all mine. Not a single piece of silicone is inside my body. Those who have had the pleasure of seeing me naked can vouch for that.

  I have always taken care of my body and have judged those for not doing so as well. You only have one. One set of arms, legs, lungs, liver, heart. You have one! That’s basically God’s way of saying you only get one shot at this, don’t fuck it up. Yesterday, for example, when I cut off Navy Blue Suit during the meeting. He obviously gave the middle finger to life when it came to his body and looks because he has to be about forty pounds overweight and heaves with each sentence he utters. Out of shape and horribly grotesque. Micah, on the other hand, has the same perspective as me. Or at least I would like to hope so. Judging by the way he is built and the way he carries himself, then I’m gonna say he does treat his body the way he is supposed to. I would treat it just as nice if given the chance, and I have no doubt that I will have that chance soon enough.

  When I get to room 309 on the twelfth floor, I unlock the door and walk in so I can set up for the meeting. Micah is still behind me, waiting for something, so I turn to ask what he needs.

  “Yes?” I question, raising an eyebrow.

  He lets out an annoyed chuckle, “I take it you didn’t read the memo that was emailed out? I set this meeting up because a certain someone finds it more important to smoke weed with her brother instead of talking to her employees about their pay.”

  I suck in a sharp breath as he pushes past me and turns on the lights. I watch him for a second before I get to work setting up my computer. But something as simple as turning it on has eluded me as I watch Micah work. All taught muscles and tan skin. I sigh. Not like I did all day yesterday. No. This sigh is lust filled and needy. It’s bad that I can’t remember my last good lay. Fucking bullshit if you ask me.

  “Can you stop staring and do your job.” Micah says, breaking me out of my reverie.

  I may have underestimated him. But that has yet to be determined. After all, this is the most we have spoken to each other.

  Chapter Five

  I keep chewing on my pen, which is a nasty habit that I have never done before, but considering I can’t stop watching Micah, I need to do something with my mouth beside leaving it partly open and drooling. And it doesn’t help that he is the one speaking at this meeting while Navy Blue Suit sits in the front, watching him as intently as I am. I bet Navy Blue Suit would suck his dick, too. I shake my head and take the pen out of my mouth. The cap looks like a chew toy a puppy just got done with. All teeth marks and saliva. Just gross. On top of being prideful of my appearance, I’m also a germaphobe. Needless to say, I probably fund half of Purell with all the shit I buy from them.

  “Tiffany, can you check the form I gave you.” Micah says, looking at the skinny blonde on the other side of the table.

  No one sits at my end. They all avoid me like I’m the fucking plague wrapped in a well-fitting suit. As much as I like the space, because it stays quiet, I wouldn’t mind having a peon to torture during these God-awful meetings. Payroll and bonuses don’t need to be discussed. All I have to do is go over everyone’s hours, punch the information into my system, and boom. They all get paid. But some believe that checking hours and staff duties for the day are needed. And by some, I mean Micah and Derek. Those two would get along well. If it were up to me, everyone would get paid minimum wage and work no more than forty hours a week. The less I have to pay them, the more money I get in my bank account. No one would get bonuses or raises because why the fuck should they? From the security footage and reports I go over, everyone does the bare minimum to get by. The interns do more than the veterans and they get paid much less. That says a lot about the losers that work for me.

  It doesn’t take a fucking genius to make money or crunch numbers or invest in stocks. A monkey can do their jobs.

  “Mr. Duclos, everything seems in order. The only person that seems to be working on more hours is Laura Vincent. She is an intern who works on the seventh floor. Coming in early and leaving late.”

  The blonde—I mean Tiffany, squeaks out. She coughs on the back of her hand before handing the papers back to Micah. I gag.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Graham?” Micah huffs out, obviously annoyed by my audible disgust.

  “You just took papers from her hands that she coughed on.” I gag again, “Copy those before you give them to me. I’m not touching the ones you have.”

  Tiffany’s jaw drops and her face reddens. I don’t feel bad for speaking the obvious. What she did was unspeakable and repulsive. Micah, who is now wiping his hands on his pants, is looking at me like he wants to strangle me for being so blunt. And as fucked up as it may sound, that thought turns me on. To have his hands on me, being not so gentle.

  “Well, if we are done here, I have a dinner to get ready for. Make sure you actually copy those. I don’t need to catch Ebola because blondie couldn’t use a handkerchief.”

  The room stays silent while I gather my things. Thankfully, all I have to carry out is my Macbook and a few files that I didn’t give to Micah. When I make it back to my office, I plop the files on my desk and make a mental note to file them when I come in tomorrow. If I want to make it to the boutique for a new suit, I have to leave now. I can hear Derek now “Why not just wear one of the countless pieces of clothing you have now? You have some with tags still on them!”

  That may be true, but I’m also going to pick up a few pieces for work as well as tonight’s dinner with Father.

  My mother always told me that no matter the occasion, you must always look crisp and sharp. You can intimidate more people in a good suit than you can with a hard stare. I have found no fault in that statement, because while I always have my resting bitch face on, I have always had a sleek and sexy suit to match it. I can say I’m like the plague. Making people ill with envy.

  I shut down my hard drive to my desk computer and turn the lamp off. Grabbing my things, I turn towards the door and walk out. My tiny body barrels into Derek’s brick wall frame.

  “Fuck, Derek. What the hell do you want?” I groan out, bending over to pick up my purse.

  “Just checking to see if you were still going tonight. Didn’t know if any type of last minute plans had come up.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing exactly what he is referring to. I will shamelessly admit that I have backed out of several dinners with the Graham men by faking last minute plans. Those two together drive me fucking nuts.

  “No. In fact, I was just headed out to grab a new dress.”

  “Why not just dig in your closet for something?” See? Now, what did I say?

  “Because I have other things to get as well, not that it is any of your business.”

  I stand tall once everything that fe
ll to the floor is collected, “Oh, and I need the employee file for, shit what was her name? Laura Vincent, I believe. Apparently she is new and overstays her welcome.”

  “Okay. I’ll have Charles out them in your mailbox today. See you later, Coocky Bear.”

  I make a face. I hate that nickname, yet he seems to enjoy torturing me by using it at unexpected times.

  “Fuck off, Derek.”

  He laughs while walking off, and I stride to the elevators. I have a long night ahead of me, and I know I’m going to need a drink listening to my father and brother. Fuck, I’ll need a whole bottle of Vinique if it will sway the headache that trumps me when I’m around those two.

  ***

  My lips curl around the glass as I take a sip of my fourth martini. This will lead to a hangover tomorrow, but oh well. The second we walk into the restaurant, Dad starts on us because he checked the emails Derek sent him, and he is not pleased. I don’t know why he cares so damn much about how we run our company. He has his own; he can fuck off and leave the one we have created alone. Now they are bickering about some bullshit penny stock that he invested in that is now crashing quicker than a Nascar driver.

  That, and that reason alone, is why I would never trust my father to help us run our company. He isn’t as sharp as he used to be back when he took over the London’s Corporation. Back then he was just as quick-witted and smart as we are. I will be damned if he loses any of the money Derek and I earned. Years of climbing our way to the top will not be ruined because Dear Old Dad feels we aren't as superior as he is when it comes to “rolling with the big boys” I wave to our waitress and hold up my glass for a refill.

  “So, Cora. Tell me how you feel about what Derek and I will be doing next fiscal year?” My father's aged voice pierces my ears.

  I raise my eyebrows, giving a questioning look because I have not heard a word they have spoken since about an hour ago.

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will do spectacularly.” My voice is flat and bitter.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my father. But growing up with two parents who ruled with an iron thumb has made me cold and damn near heartless. You learn through the environment you grow up in. The way you are raised affects the way one’s personality grows, and I’m the prime example of how all that psycological shit works. Raised by two hard as can be parent who talked about money more than they did their kids, end result: me being a stone cold bitch who works in finance.

  “Of course it will. The Graham men are smart.”

  My dad laughs, completely oblivious that I gave a shit answer that would satisfy him. Derek, on the other hand, kicks my foot under the table. I glare at him, silently telling him to fuck off.

  “Well, you two, it’s getting late, and I’m sure your mother is getting worried.”

  Thank fuck this is over!

  “You guys go, I will pay the tab and hopefully we can get together again, soon.”

  Derek and our father says goodbye while I stare at my phone, answering an email from work. I smile at him as Derek and I walk off, exiting the building. Derek walks me to my car, and I can feel his glare burning a hole in my Vera Wang dress. I huff and spin around.

  “Go on. I know you’re going to lecture me.”

  “You know what? Not this time. I’ll let the fact that you were a total bitch to our dad fester in your mind for a bit. One day Cora, your ruthlessness will get you into a fucking bind you can’t get out of.”

  I roll my eyes as he continues to mumble and walk away. At this point, all I want to do is wash this day off and sleep because my mind is on other things.

  Chapter Six

  Micah

  I stare at the tattered briefcase on the floor of my locked office. Judging by the duct tape on the tiny silver latch, I’m confident I could open it without my tool box. In fact, if I simply peel the purple tape back I’m pretty sure the pleather case would come flying open. Don’t do it. Not cool. I run my thumb over the three-inch patch of tape. Its stringy edges have lost their stickiness. I wonder how many times she’s used this same piece to keep the lock shut. Too many to count, I bet.

  Sighing, I lean back in my black leather office chair and push the briefcase with my foot under my desk. I’d have bet good money that she’d have come looking for it, but she never did. Maybe there’s nothing interesting in it. Or not worth it. Maybe tomorrow. Or, maybe, I just bring it home with me and give it to her in the elevator after she gets out. Two hands for her coffee. One less carpet cleaning bill for Her Highness.

  I stare at my long, polished desk. I’d been so excited the day they remodeled my office and brought it in as a reward for the highest quarterly yield. It was the same day they finished putting that darn carpeting in. A month old, its oak high gloss finish winks at me now as if giving me permission to leave the building for the day or telling me to stop trying so hard—that I’m already “here.” But after today’s meeting, I’m determined to stay later than usual. It’s not like I have anyone at home waiting for me anymore. I’m on salary, and the idea of any more hourly employees going home to their spouses or looking at their kids with a pink slip isn’t going to work. Not on my watch.

  I know all the numbers. There’s no reason for it. Unfortunately, I also know Cora Graham which is why I can’t leave until I figure this out. In a week, she’ll be all over Bob in human resources to start making unnecessary cuts. She’ll call another meeting and say she’s “done some thinking.”

  She’ll go straight for the Brianna, the single mother who pumps breast milk in her office and stores it in a mini-fridge. Her Highness will stoop as low as claiming the refridgerator, which is against company policy since the day Brianna returned from unpaid maternity leave, is jacking up the electric bill. Next, she’ll hit Ryan, the mailroom kid with stomach cancer. She’ll claim he is a liability and that he spends too much time in the bathroom. It’s just the kind of bitch she is.

  I’ve seen it before. I can’t listen to or watch it again. And I refuse to think about Laura—on her radar thanks to today’s meeting and God-dammed Tiffany. Not happening. Tempted to shoot Derek an email as a preemptive strike, I reconsider. Opposites or not, you don’t build a business with a sibling you aren’t close to. Like it or not, those two are tight. And if I’m honest, they make the perfect good cop, bad cop duo.

  I yawn, picking up the phone to order take out from the local Indian restaurant. There’s nothing like red curry chicken and onion Naan after a payroll meeting bound to get someone canned within two weeks. Last time, Cora fired Nellie, who’d worked here ten years as a file clerk, for unapproved overtime hours. Never once did that woman call in sick. Not once did she even ask for a promotion. It didn’t matter. Her Highness didn’t care a thing about Nellie’s son needing emergency open heart surgery. Christ, when the kid died, I overheard her tell Derek that the corporation “isn’t in the habit of sending bereavement cards to former employees.” Lovely. A real peach. That’s Cora Graham.

  Sometimes, I wish I could get my hands around her neck and choke her. That was one of those days. And that wasn’t the worst of it. It was also three days before she told Derek off and threatened financial sabotage for suggesting a volunteer employee contribution fund for the three-year-old son’s funeral. Four days later, after Derek conceded, she gave Nellie’s friend a written warning for starting a Go Fund Me on company time for the kid’s headstone. Of course, she did it through an intern. Cora can’t generally be bothered to get her hands dirty herself. Instead, she sends whatever minion is stupid enough to be roaming the halls looking to kiss ass to do her shit work.

  I can’t let it happen, again. Yeah. I was able to get the kid a nice chunk of granite with an anonymous donation, but it wasn’t enough. This time, I have to get ahead of her. I look up at the large oval clock handed down through my family from my grandather. It hangs on the far wall of my mostly bare office. It’s nearly eight. I’m not sure how the day got away from me so quickly.

  Pulling up Laura’s empl
oyee file, I click the Excel sheet where her times are logged. In seconds, using software Derek didn’t even have to fight Her Highness for, I have the numbers. She averages forty-three hours a week at ten dollars an hour. After taxes and internship fees Cora insists upon because we’re “doing them a favor,” she’s lucky to bring home $381 a week. Jesus. How does she afford to live?

  Convinced she won’t be able to handle a face-to-face conversation, I begin an email to her with the subject “Internship Hours.” I hate to be the one to do this, but I figure if I can warn her now not to go over forty hours it might help her in the long run. And hell, I realize, she probably won’t even understand it’s coming from me—the elevator guy.

  I’ve never told her my name. I only know her name from hanging out in the break room with Derek who makes jokes about the incoming intern crop each year. He and the other guys take bets on who gets who and who has the nicest ass, whose looking to get somewhere, and who is most likely to blow Bob. Like the in high school and college locker rooms, I’m glad to be away from, the new female interns also get nicknames and superlatives. This year, Laura’s superlatives were “most likely to quit” and “nicest tits.” They call her Cans and think nothing of it. Not even Bob, who gives the mandatory orientations and makes up the PowerPoints on sexual harassment in the work place, dodges this game of betting and naming. Her Heighness at the helm or not, Graham’s Incorporated is most definitely a boys’ club, and I think she likes it that way.

  Determined not to allow Derek’s theory that Laura doesn’t look strong enough to handle the fast-paced corporate world, I draft three versions of the email before I scan through my contacts to find her email address. That’s when I see it—a profile picture next to the initials LV. The picture, which would normally be a person’s face in a fancy suit or the logo for Graham’s, is instead of a black-eyed, fat-faced baby. The profile picture is of a mini-Laura. She looks just like. No. It can’t be. No way.