by Chloe Blaque
“Why is that woman telling me she is my general manager?” I whisper to Lou as I take my seat. “I’m allowed to keep my team; Tina is my team.”
“Tina will get a nice severance package. Don’t worry,” he says. I stiffen and stare him down until he looks me in the eyes.
“Does she know?”
“Tina knows everything,” he says.
“You should have told me,” I say, angry and confused.
Lou shrugs, and I am suddenly ready to sign over my life to get the hell away from this man. In my heart, I know Tina would want me to do what’s best for Fierce. Plus who doesn’t want a fat severance package? She could take some time off or retire. I’ll call her when I get out of here.
I eye a delicious-looking pink cupcake as we cover the main financial talking points of Fierce’s absorption into Viper—my salary, which is a nice increase, my staff budget, our contributor’s budget, and operating expenses for our New York office. It’s a great setup, and the minute New York is mentioned, I think of Evan. I try to dream up reasons why I would have to stay in San Francisco a little longer. He was so cute this morning. My body warms just thinking about it. Waking up with a man’s head between your legs should be an assumed rule, like Corona served with a lime.
“Now let’s review your content stipulations.”
Content stipulations?
“So with this contract, you agree to targeting a demographic from eighteen to forty-nine with sixty percent of the content targeted to Caucasian women, twenty percent African American, and twenty percent other.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, scrunching my face. I review the contract and see the stipulations hiding in the middle of the paragraph. I shake my head rapidly. “I agreed to add celebrity gossip content. That’s it. My audience is ninety percent people of color, which you know. I never agreed to change the direction of the website.”
“Our analytics team has found that we can make a lot more money on ad sales if we target the Caucasian market.”
My jaw drops.
“I thought you wanted to break into my current demographic,” I say, my voice rising. “You said you were happy with the way my readers responded to the Josie piece.”
“We are very happy with the Josie piece, and we want more, geared toward Caucasian women. And no more of those features on the kids from the street.”
Still in shock, I swallow hard. “I saw the analytics on the kids’ piece. Six thousand views is nothing to sneeze at.”
“It’s not sexy,” Khan says, waving his hand in the air. “We want sleek, fabulous, glam. Not dirty, gritty, gutter stories.”
I clench my fists. “That is not a gutter story. It’s triumphant.”
“Well, it’s not for us,” Mr. Khan says through tight lips.
“Lex, I think what Mr. Khan means is—”
“Shut up, Lou. I know what he means.” Pausing, I scan the sea of faces staring at me from around the oval table. My stomach has been turning about this sale for days, and now I know why. These people are like the Borg. They destroy all that is unique and assimilate it into their drone-like folds. My instincts have been warning me. Now I am going to listen. Putting my pen down, I stare daggers at Khan.
“He means that the multicultural community—the minorities, the gray area, the other—is a poor investment.” I stare at the Asian Bond girl, who lowers her eyes, and then I turn back to Khan. “Well, I am other. I am the gray area. I am multicultural, and I think you are a poor investment.” I stand up and shove my chair out of my way.
“Everyone at this table, and I mean everyone,” I say glancing at Lou, “can go fuck themselves!” The room gasps at my statement and ohhhs when I rip up the contract, letting the two pieces fall to the table.
Khan jumps from his seat and points a finger at me. “You will never work in this town again!”
“Good!” I shout.
Sputtering, Lou reaches for me, but I skirt his hands and push my chair between us. Before more people come out of their seats, I grab that pink cupcake and head for the door, snagging the champagne on the way out.
* * * *
A weight has been lifted, like I’m free of the shackles of this fucked-up situation. I’m high on my performance and feel like I could steamroll anything in my way. This is the right thing to do. I know it. I feel it in my bones.
I walk out of the office, into the fresh air, and lift my face to the sunshine. It’s a new day. I came. I saw. I conquered. Freedom has left me with the gift of open road and endless possibilities.
Evan is right; I can run the site on my own. These jokers can take their content stipulations and stuff them up their tight asses. I don’t need their help. Shoving the cupcake in my mouth, I flag a cab. I can’t wait to see Evan.
With a quick knock on Evan’s door, I try the knob and frown when it’s locked. The doorman just called up, so he knows I’m here. I knock again and call out, “Evan?”
I hear the locks go, but my smile fades when Josie Pink opens the door in a white see-through teddy that barely covers her cooch. Her fake breasts strain against the fabric, showing her areolas, and her streaked hair falls forward as she cocks her head and looks me up and down
“Can I help you?” she asks as if bored. Like it’s perfectly normal to be in lingerie at three in the afternoon. I hope she doesn’t recognize me from the other night.
“I’m looking for Evan.”
“He’s indisposed right now,” she says. Her sharp expression and narrowed gaze make me uncomfortable. It’s a possessive look, like she is speaking about a lover. My skin starts to prickle.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re kind of busy,” she says, gesturing to her lingerie. My breath leaves my body. I look behind her to the cracked bedroom door. Rumpled sheets. Tears threaten to well in my eyes, but I fight them. Last night, when we were talking about New York, maybe it was clear to him that we wouldn’t last.
“So you’re fucking, then,” I say. My voice trails off into a whisper.
“Well, we can’t when the door is wide open. Do you have a message?” Then I hear Evan call Josie’s name from the bedroom.
“No. It’s not important,” I choke out. Hurrying down the hall, I punch the elevator button repeatedly and throw myself inside when the doors open. Six hours ago, I was in that bed. Now there is another girl in that bed. Thirty minutes ago, I sabotaged my career, feeling buoyed by Evan’s so-called support. Now I am alone, crying in an elevator. Fuck my life.
My shoulders begin to shake as tears run down my cheeks and along my nose. Why don’t I ever listen to my instincts when it comes to men? His fingers were on my pussy the first night we met, about two seconds after he had been making out with some other girl. He’s built a playground. There have probably been countless girls on that black couch in his office…with the champagne…and the strawberries. My stomach lurches. Let’s not forget our resident porn star, who he has already had a high school fling with. They probably fuck just for old times’ sake whenever they see each other.
He chased me for fun, and, while Josie was away, it was time to play.
I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.
Down in the lobby, I wipe my face with my sleeve and realize that I am still wearing Evan’s blazer. I rip it off and hand it to the doorman, who is looking at me wide-eyed.
“That’s Mr. Cain’s,” I say with an audible swallow.
“Miss, are you all right?” he asks.
I smile and nod at his kind older face and hurry out the door. Crying a little harder, I’m holding myself against the chill on the curb when the doorman comes outside.
“Miss, come inside. I’ve called you a car. He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
“Thank you,” I say, dabbing away tears.
Minutes later, I’m in a town car heading to the W. “Sir?” I ask into a tissue. “Would you mind waiting for me downstairs when we get to the W? I’d like to go to the airport.”
The driver nods, a
nd I’m relieved to get away from the fucked-up mess that is San Francisco. Just hours ago, I was trying to think of ways to stay; now a rocket ship couldn’t get me home to New York fast enough. Between Lou and Khan and Josie and Evan, I’m done being a pawn in everyone else’s game. They can all go fuck themselves. I’m going home.
Chapter Sixteen
Entering my Tribeca loft is like walking into a sauna. I forgot to crack a window, so my prewar radiator pipes have been steaming and hissing in a locked box for days. I drop my bags on the hardwood floor, open a window, and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I slump against the kitchen island, and I envision everything around me being repossessed. I recall the figures in my bank account and rub my hands over my face.
“What have I done?” I ask out loud. I dial Tina, who I know will still be up at one a.m.
“Dolly! I heard everything! Just tell me the look on Lou’s face. Please!”
“I don’t even know where to begin. What have you heard?”
“Stacy, the receptionist, said that Khan wouldn’t even talk to Lou as they were walking out. You know, they were promising Lou big money if they got your site.”
Oh, well, now his crazy all makes sense.
“Lou’s face looked like a strawberry ready to implode.” I rattle off the details of the meeting. “Why didn’t you tell me you were being let go?”
“I already heard it was going to happen. I just didn’t get the confirmation until last night. Lou, that bastard, called me and told me. I told him to go to hell,” says Tina.
I chuckle. Lou got it from all sides. “Tina, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t told Randy or the rest of my team. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just call them and tell them. They’ve done freelance. They’ll find other jobs. This shit happens. Have they cut the server yet?”
I pull out my iPad and type in www.thefiercest.com. Our homepage pops up. “No,” I say.
“Good. I’m gonna call tech and have them change all the passwords and move us over to another server.”
“Can we do that?”
“Who’s gonna stop us? Lou?” She cackles like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Tina, I need a plan. I think I just ruined my life.”
“Lex, stop that. Nothing is ruined. It just needs…rejiggered. Get some rest; then you can figure it out.”
Something about that last statement makes me burst into tears. I tell her everything about Evan and Josie and how I haven’t heard from Evan at all since I left last night.
“Dolly, he’s not worth it. They never are. Don’t get yourself worked up over a guy who hasn’t called.”
“You’re right,” I say, sniffling. “It’s stupid. I have bigger fish to fry.”
When we get off the phone, I scroll over Evan’s number and push it until the Delete button pops up. Letting my thumb hover, I stare hard until the screen darkens.
Josie’s huge breasts and Evan’s voice have been running in and out of my mind since I got on the plane. I just can’t believe he would do that. Not after the way we made love the night before. Is he really that guy? Am I in denial because I don’t want to see it? I glance at my phone and grimace. Yep. It’s denial. Here I am, hours later, with no calls or texts. If he wanted me, he would have called. Fuck him.
Maybe it’s the fatigue, but I am feeling San Francisco slipping away already. What was I thinking? I don’t know that guy; I don’t know his middle name or what his favorite foods are. Oh wait… It’s tacos. Regardless, Evan and I don’t even live on the same coast! It never would have worked.
As with all players, I’ll hear from Evan eventually, but it will be a passing hello—just to keep me thinking about him. They love that. It makes them feel good to think that they could still have you if they wanted. Nope. By that time, I’ll have moved on.
My head is bobbing up and down at my logic when I grab my iPad and move to the couch. I’m about to schedule a morning conference call with my staff when I see an e-mail from Evan. My fingers hover over the screen, then move away to tug on my lips. The subject line reads: Call me at the office.
My cell is gone, and I can’t get a new phone until tomorrow. The hotel said you checked out. Did you go home? Please call me at the office and tell me where you are. Josie told me what happened, but not until Charles (doorman) gave me my blazer back. He said you were crying. Lex. Josie and I didn’t have sex. We DO NOT have sex. She is…was…like a sister to me. I’m going nuts not talking to you. Baby, please call me, so I can explain.
My heart is beating hard. I want to call him. I read it again, dissecting every word. I can’t get sucked into this again, but my resolve cracks with every phrase. His face and smile take over my brain. No one has ever made me feel the way Evan does. Or made love to me the way Evan has. Even now, I want his naked body moving fluidly over mine. How can I let this go? This e-mail makes me feel like he is reaching for me. It’s all I can do not to reach back.
Glancing at the time, I scroll through my phone and dial. I wince when the sound of sleep and a gruff hello comes through the phone.
“Hi, Pete. I’m home.”
* * * *
The next morning, Nikki—my sex editor—and Randy are taking their unemployment rather well.
“I can get unemployment benefits, right?” Nikki asks, almost happy. Ahhh, to be twenty-four again. Randy, who is really twenty-seven but tells people he is twenty-four, vows to stick with me whatever I do.
“I’ll work for you for free,” says Randy.
I shake my head. “No, you would not! You have a nasty shoe habit.”
“Then I’ll work for shoes,” he says.
I tell them that this week is their last paycheck, but Fierce will still be running for a little while longer. They both agree to send me whatever they have in the works, and I’ve promised to pay them on a contribution basis.
After we hang up, I work for hours. Our tech guy, Jake, brings over my stuff from the New York office and sets me up on the new server. He tells me that our advertising partners have been pulling their inserts in anticipation of a shutdown. Without the banners and sidebars, the webpage had to be rescaled. He shows me the new look; it’s cleaner and less cluttered. Minimal but bold. I like it, but I am very aware that without a revenue stream, this webzine turned back to blog will not last. Jim gives me his card and tells me that he’ll give me a good deal if I need any more help. His number goes in my phone immediately.
Lunchtime comes too soon, and I fall into the couch for a nap with the tiniest of hopes to never wake up. Sleep eludes me, and my mind shifts back to the e-mail Evan sent. He could have gotten his phone by now. I close my eyes tighter.
Stop wishing he would chase you.
Work feels oddly good. The constant barrage of page views, clicks, unique visitors, and SEO is gone. I am free to post whatever I want without being concerned about performance measurements. I can do more of the stuff I wanted to do but couldn’t because of Lou’s discouragement. Like health and wellness, which Lou told me didn’t add value. I’m going to do it. Meanwhile, my street kids idea is still like a fire in my blood. Maybe this is good. Maybe along with a new Fierce comes a new me. Is it possible that the person I was in San Francisco is just a skin that I need to shed?
I type Evan’s name into Google. His hands and mouth on my body have crashed through my thoughts several times, but I keep busy and remind myself that he’s a fucking asshole. And yet, he’s like a drug that I am trying to quit. I just need one more hit.
Evan’s perfect face loads in Google images along with several others, mostly at the club. As I click on a few thumbnails, one of him smiling next to Jared pops up, as does a Muse staff photo where he stands cross-armed in the middle of the group. In both images his full lips are spread in a lopsided grin. I catch my own smile and wipe it away.
In the next picture, Evan’s grin has formed into a wide smile as his arms curl around two pretty socialites. Another of him next to a new group of gir
ls appears, and another, and another. Keep smiling, jerk-off. I close the webpage. Now I can move on.
I am about to start searching the Internet for stories when my phone rings. Oh God, it’s Evan. My breath catches, and I pull my hand back, biting on my knuckle. If I want to shed this skin, then I need to shed him as well. Let’s say he has a really good excuse for yesterday. What good is it going to do to keep up a relationship long-distance? I can see it now—phone calls dwindle to texts that dwindle to e-mails that dwindle to nothing. I have to move forward. I have to—the ringing stops. Tears burn my eyes, and my gaze never leaves the phone as I wait for a voice mail. No indicator pops up. My apartment is suddenly very quiet.
Quickly, before my nerve runs out, I pull up Evan’s e-mail and click Reply.
Yes, yesterday was horrible, but also eye-opening. I made it back to New York last night and have gotten a handle on my feelings. I want to believe that you didn’t have another woman in your bed just hours after I left it, but to be honest, I’m not sure. We really don’t know each other that well, and there have been a lot of secrets and lies, which I am also responsible for, I know. Wondering if you are just toying with me is exhausting. Regardless, I think the bigger picture still hasn’t changed. We live three thousand miles away from each other. What are we going to do, Skype? I don’t want that.
I came to your apartment to tell you that I didn’t sign the contract with Viper. Now I have a whole other mess of problems that I am going to focus on. The time that we spent together will always be special to me, but I think it’s over. Good luck with the gallery. Take care.
Closing my eyes, I hit Send.
Chapter Seventeen
Sometimes a brisk walk is all I need to clear my head. I throw on ankle jeans, a light cashmere shawl, and my flats before stepping out into the night. I love the crisp October air, the cool evening breeze, and the sprinkles of hand ’n hand couples coming and going from dinner. It’s been several hours since I e-mailed Evan. No response.
