Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  “There are more, and no, I don’t need anyone’s input on who to hire or fire.”

  I stand and pace. “We have three jets. That means six pilots and however many flight attendants that sit and wait for one of you or a shareholder to call up for an emergency meeting in Hawaii. That’s gonna change. All of you have way too many perks and are paid more than the employees who put in over forty hours a week, and for what? Being here a few hours a month?”

  “To be fair, son—”

  “I’m not your son,” I spit at the bastard then look at his nameplate—Cartwright. “Not from wife one, wife two, or any of the secretaries you stick your nub of a dick in—”

  “Bastien.” Alfred stands. “Can I have a moment?”

  “With all due respect, Alfred, no, you may not.” I put my hands on the table and look them all over. “I’m not some trust fund, entitled fuck who owes any of you a damn thing. And I’m the majority shareholder. It is my way.”

  “That’s not how the bylaws read, Josephs,” one guy says.

  I look at the nameplate—Burns.

  I throw my head back and laugh at the asshole who has no clue what I’m going to do here, “Fine, let’s have a vote.”

  Oliver stands up. “Let’s take a break.”

  “Let’s.” I push off the table and head toward the asshole’s office, but then I stop and look back. “You can all breathe easy. Apparently, the old man gave you a pass for an entire quarter after I was appointed. But you can bet your asses I’ll be paying attention.”

  Once in the office, I realize I left my smokes in the fucking boardroom. Oliver or Alfred—I’m not sure which—shuts the door.

  Oliver is the first one to speak. “You need to calm down, man.”

  “Calm down? Those assholes—every. Fucking. One of them—are entitled pieces of shit.”

  “They’ve also been here a long time,” Alfred interjects.

  “Doesn’t mean it was a good time,” I huff.

  “They worked very well with your father.”

  “The old man was not my fucking father.”

  “That old man gave you a company that he birthed and loved.” Alfred’s words are meant to prove some bullshit, but they piss me off.

  He should have paid attention to the woman who actually birthed and loved his only fucking child.

  I open the door and see her sitting at the table, still writing on that pad.

  She looks up. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Ms. Petrov, I’m not sure I do.”

  She stands and extends her hand. Is she out of her damn mind?

  She pulls it back and looks down, her eyebrows knit, and then she looks up at me. “Mr. Josephs, the mailroom issue is something I’d like to discuss.”

  “I’m pretty sure I just made it clear I’m really not up to listening to people’s opinions.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’d understand if—”

  When I light up a cigarette, she stops.

  “There is no smoking in the building.”

  “Apparently, I own the damn building, so I guess that means shit to me.”

  “It’s a law.”

  Fuck! And fuck it. I take another drag.

  “The head of HR, Emilia, has been here for—”

  “Did I not make myself clear?”

  “Those people you say sleep on the job—”

  “I didn’t say it; she did.” I blow out a huge cloud of smoke.

  “I would ask you not to raise your voice at me, and—”

  “Bass?” Oliver pokes his head into the room.

  I walk over and slam the thing in his face. Then I lock it.

  “Not raise my fucking voice, Angela? Are you insane?”

  “No, I’m not, but—”

  “Did you think I didn’t recognize you with different colored hair? Do you think because you spread your legs for me that you have a pass?”

  She steps back as if I struck her.

  “That may have kept you here for the old man, but it sure as fuck won’t for me.”

  She shakes her head.

  “I know damn well you were fucking him. I’m no fool. I know damn well you thought you could spread that sweet, little pussy out in front of me and—”

  “That’s enough!” She covers her ears.

  “Did I touch a hot spot?”

  Her eyes grow livid. “How dare you be angry at me?”

  “How dare I?” I laugh. “How dare I?”

  Her mouth opens and shuts several times, and if it wasn’t so pathetic, it would be comical.

  “Let me ask you something; if your little girl was on her knees and I was fucking that little mouth of hers, how would you—”

  My words cease when her hand connects with my face, and I step back.

  “You know what? I was going to give you the courtesy of three months, but fuck that. Your replacement is already here, and I’m sure he won’t try to fuck me to keep his job.”

  She doesn’t say a fucking word. She turns her back and picks up her bag and the notebook in another hand. Then she spins around and pushes it against my chest. “Those people in the mailroom are adults with special needs. They do the job for far less than anyone else does, and it makes them feel good.” She steps back and the notebook drops. “If I were you, I would consider that.”

  “I’m sure I would have figured it out myself.”

  “No, Bass, you wouldn’t have.”

  “You don’t know me!”

  She shakes her head then looks at me like I’m pathetic.

  “You’re right; I certainly don’t. Had I known you, I would have never—”

  I cut her off with a laugh. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You’re quite the little actress, aren’t you?”

  She shakes her head again. “What I am is an honest woman who had a physical relationship with a man who treated me with respect.”

  “Respect? You think I respect you?”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, Bass. I was talking about Jean.”

  Enraged, I yell, “Get the hell out of here!”

  I hear banging on the door and Oliver saying, “Open the fucking door, Bass.”

  “I don’t know what sick game you’re playing, but I really hope it works out for you. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll grow up along the way. Then maybe you can become the man you pretended to be.”

  The door opens before I have time to reply, and then Alfred hurries past me and follows her out the door.

  “Bass, what the fuck?” Oliver scolds me. “You said you could handle it.”

  “How well do I handle liars?” I ask, trying to calm the fuck down when my heart is nearly beating out of my chest.

  “You don’t.” He runs his hand over his head. “But you said—”

  “I didn’t think she’d act like she didn’t do a fucking thing wrong. I expected …” I stop and shake my head.

  “You expected what, man?”

  “I have no fucking clue.” I shake my head. “More. I expected more.”

  Oliver crosses his arms. “How will she take care of her family?”

  “Her fucking ex is still employed here isn’t he?” I turn my back to him.

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer huh?”

  He’s not wrong.

  Twenty minutes later, Alfred walks back into the old man’s office. No, fuck that, my office. He tosses a file on the desk then pulls an ashtray out of his coat pocket and sets it beside it.

  “You need to read this. Then you need to leave that woman alone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not afraid of being fired by you, Bass. I work for your father’s estate. I don’t owe you a penny, nor a moment beyond what has previously been decided by your father. But I will give you some advice free of charge. You’ve pissed a lot of people off today. Some of them, I give a damn less about. That woman, she isn’t one to piss off.”

  “Because she’s fucking delusional? Crazy?”

  “No,
Bass, because she could be your greatest asset, like she was your father’s, or she could ruin you.”

  She already fucking has! I scream inside my head.

  “But regardless of what you decide, you owe her a fucking apology.”

  “I don’t owe her shit.”

  He nods. “All right then. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Once he leaves, I look at Oliver. “You’re my assistant.” I point to the folder. “Assist.”

  “Nice tone.” He takes his feet off the desk then leans forward for the folder.

  I watch as he opens it.

  “The fuck?” He holds a stack of pictures.

  “The old man and her? Or her and me?” I ask, knowing damn well Alfred’s warning wasn’t some scare tactic.

  He doesn’t answer me as he flips through picture after picture. I watch his face change from intense to much softer when he sets the pile down.

  “You said something about her kid.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “So what?” I huff. “She fucked Jean. Then his kid.”

  He stands up and taps the top picture. “Alfred’s right; you owe her an apology.”

  “For fucking what?” I snap.

  “The comment about fucking her kid’s mouth.”

  As he walks out the door, I want to punch him in his nuts.

  I finish my smoke then walk over to put it out. I flip the pile over and see a kid … with a cleft lip.

  Fuck.

  I thumb through them and see ones through several stages of a transformation of sorts.

  I feel sick to my stomach for what I said, even though I had no clue her daughter had gone through what appears to have been several years of surgeries.

  I hit the app to see if she’s near. She’s not.

  “Of course she’s not. You fucking fired her.” I close my eyes and lean back in the chair, running my hands through my now shorter hair.

  A knock on the door interrupts me.

  “Come in.”

  Oliver walks in. “Your interview is on in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll catch it another time. Set up meetings with all the people we’re getting rid of tomorrow.”

  “All of them?”

  I know he heard my discussion with her. I’m in asshole mode, but I’m not that much of an asshole.

  “Leave out the head of HR and mailroom employees.”

  He starts to shut the door then stops. “You contact her?”

  I shake my head. “No number.”

  “I’ll make sure to get it for you … boss.”

  Oliver returns with a piece of paper. Her name, number, and address are on it.

  I send her a text.

  It was brought to my attention that what I said concerning your daughter may have been viewed by you as malicious. It wasn’t intended to be. I didn’t know.

  Her reply is immediate.

  Does ignorance excuse deplorable behavior?

  I respond: In this case, it’s the truth. Therefore, yes.

  She replies: Did you fire the mail staff or head of HR due to the ignorance on your behalf? If so, it’s not excusable since, in this case, it’s the truth.

  I respond: It was looked into and verified. So no, they weren’t let go.

  She replies: Best of luck in your position. Although he was apparently a tyrant to you, he loved the company. You have big shoes to fill, which reminds me. I seem to be missing a few items. You can keep the shoes; I know how fond you are of them. But there is a bracelet that means a great deal to me, and I would like it back.

  I look down at my wrist and read the words on the silver bracelet. Be Present.

  I reply: If I come across it, I will return it to you.

  Green dots jump across the screen. Then a message appears.

  Please have it couriered. And Bass, please do not message me again.

  Fuck you, is what I want to say. Instead, I type, Fine by me.

  When I hit send, it’s sent back as undeliverable.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bass

  Sleep. I have a love/hate relationship with it. As much as I need it, I would sometimes rather do without.

  At five, I woke to news of my mother’s death. At eight, I woke and found my grandmother asleep in her bed and couldn’t wake her up.

  Sometimes, I can’t sleep. Sometimes, I prefer not to sleep.

  It’s been a week with no more than a couple hours.

  Home. A place of loss and pain.

  If home is where the heart is, mine is as broken as it’s been all my damned life.

  I never really had a place I considered home until recently when I thought maybe there was a possibility. Now I realize it was all a farce.

  The elevator doors open on the twentieth floor, and I step out, raising my chin high and looking up, avoiding all the fucking people who probably would kneel down to a man they admired, one who didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve it.

  Walking down the marble floor toward the office, I have to remind myself to slow the fuck down, work it like a damn runway. Fake it till I make it.

  Story of my fucking life.

  Once inside the office, my annoyance becomes anger when I look around at his desk, his furniture, his … things.

  If home is where the heart is, this was his home. A place of beauty and fineries. But the fucker didn’t have a heart, nor soul, nor an ounce of humanity. He didn’t deserve this.

  I turn and look out the window of an office that used to be the home to a man I have despised my entire life. I imagine he felt like a king or a god, looking down on a city and its millions of people.

  I watch the reflection of all that’s going on behind me. At the movers who are taking all that was him. The desk I imagine him fucking her on. The chair I imagine her rising over him like she rode me. The small conference table where I’m sure he spread her out and ate her sweet pussy. Everything. Even the wall of shelves I imagine her back was against when he fucked her.

  All I have heard since she left was how wonderful Angela was. It wasn’t from the board who seem to be showing up a few hours a day for what I haven’t a clue. But from the staff who actually ran the place.

  The new couture line they were working on needed her approval, because “she just has an eye for beauty and class.” New models for the Paris show needed her stamp of approval, because “she knew what ‘real’ people, the consumers, want” that would make them feel beautiful.

  Accountants needed her signature, fabric vendors wanted to speak to her, marketing wanted her to tell them which advertisers to line up. Hell, even the one time I wandered into the break room, I heard women talking about her daughter and wondered how she was doing in London. Autumn, her secretary, does the best she can to answer their questions or delay them.

  When she sees me, she doesn’t hide her irritation at me for replacing her boss while training her replacement. It’s always, “Angela this, and Angela that.” And when she doesn’t know something, she gets all pissy and gives me a nasty look, replying, “Angela handled that.”

  I would fire her for that, but I have made some fucking mistakes over the past couple days and already look like a tyrant and a bully.

  I told Alfred to bring Angela back as a consultant, offer her a year’s salary for the same three months the board was given if she helped with the winter line release. He came back with her response of needing a few days to consider, and I lost my shit. He told me he would advise her against it if I continued acting like an ass.

  It’s not who I am … not anymore.

  Not in years.

  This place is a clusterfuck. I haven’t a clue as to why half the staff is here. They spend a whole lot of time shit-talking and surfing the internet. However, something she said stuck with me.

  “Does ignorance excuse deplorable behavior?”

  Be Present.

  How about not?

  How about go back to a week ago and tell me the damn truth?

  In pictures, I never saw a r
esemblance between Jean and me. But maybe she did. She certainly knew about me. She was his lover for fuck’s sake.

  That night, when Maisie was admitted for further testing and observation, I received a call from Alfred with a confirmation for a Monday meeting to discuss my inheritance, one I had been telling him to shove up his ass for months until Oliver and Maisie convinced me otherwise.

  While waiting for the doctors to read the x-rays, I opened the files on my phone of the information about the board and the key employees at de la Porte.

  I immediately recognized her. How could I not? I had been inside her, watched her sleep while lusting after her for days.

  After the doctor left, Maisie ordered me out. I told her I wanted to wait until she fell asleep, and she told me, “Absolutely not.” So, I stopped off at Stones Throw to tell Oliver I thought I had been played but couldn’t believe she was the type to do so.

  We threw around theory after theory, and then I finally decided to go ask her myself.

  She was gone.

  Just fucking left.

  I knew then I’d been played. I also knew I had been down that fucking road before and would never go back.

  I still won’t. Fuck that.

  But everything I have heard about Angela, or should I say overheard, and the fact that she is so important to a business that I want nothing to do with but will to keep Maisie’s place going, I need to be fucking present.

  Fuck the past. Fuck the pain. Fuck feelings.

  When you’re feeling down, look up.

  Two days. Two days, I have tried to resend that damn message, and she still has me blocked.

  “How’s it going today?” Oliver smirks as he walks past one of the movers.

  “Same day, same shit.” I take a sip of coffee.

  He stares at me.

  “What?” I take another drink.

  “You gonna sit in here and be a tyrant all day while they paint and refurnish this place?”

  I don’t answer him.

  “Bass, get out of here. Get some sleep. Go check on Maisie.”

  “Did the rehabilitation center call?”

  “No, but it’s not like you to not check in on her,” he says as he leans against the door.